Project Lazarus
by SheWritesThings
Summary: After the trial of Bucky Barnes, public opinion of both Steve and Tony has declined drastically. Tony hires a savvy publicist to boost their image, also calling up an old friend to help spin a tale that will win back America's heart. Meanwhile, Steve struggles with his depression and with the notion that the American people are rallying against him and actively planning attacks.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is the sequel to my other story, Blasphemy. It can be read on it's own, but you'll be missing a few details. Enjoy!**

A year had passed since (ex) Sergeant Moriah Fox, now Doctor Moriah Fox PhD, had been called into action by her old friend Sam Wilson. She'd been sucked into a different life in that time, where she'd helped Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, through his PTSD, his anxiety, his depression. A full year had passed, and in that time she'd graduated, earning her doctorate. And, in that time, she hadn't heard a word from any of them.

The Winter Soldier Trial had been ugly, and she'd thought, surely, someone would contact her then. She'd reached out to them enough times. Apparently, someone had let slip that the Winter Soldier was living with Captain America. Bucky had surrendered himself willingly at that point, had turned himself in, and had endured a three month long media circus of a trial. Was he a terrorist? A traitor? Or was he a victim? Oh, they'd loved it. Mo had called them, texted them, told them that she would testify if she had to. But all of her calls had been ignored, gone without answer.

So, like any other American citizen, she'd kept up with the trial through the media—the news, the internet, magazines, newspapers, full of interviews and inside information on the trial. Steve had testified. So had Sam, and so had Tony. Even the Black Widow had stepped up to say a piece, all of them vouching for Bucky, doing their best to save him from what everyone knew would be an execution. And, in doing so, they'd succeeded in trashing their own names. People called Steve a traitor to his country, and Tony's name had been dragged through the mud. All the love and affection the world had had for them had quickly turned to a burning hatred, betrayal.

It was everywhere. The defense had taken up the argument that Bucky had been brainwashed, that he had been turned into a weapon, that he and the Winter Soldier were two different entities. She hadn't been able to escape it. Everyone was talking about it, and she'd had to play along as though she knew nothing about it. And, on the night when it was to be decided—was Bucky Barnes innocent or guilty?—she'd sat with the rest of America, watching the courtroom on her TV screen, where people were waiting outside with signs, ready to riot.

And when Bucky Barnes had been cleared of all charges, riot they had. Things had been burned to the ground. People had been killed. America was _outraged_. There were the scarce few, mostly psychologists interviewed on TV who claimed to understand the ruling, but most people showed little mercy or compassion for the man who'd killed so many people.

That had been a few months ago. Mo had called them that night and found their phone numbers had all been disconnected.

She was furious with them, but shouldn't have been surprised. She'd been a fool to think that the nearly three months she'd spent living with them had really added up to anything. They had bigger, more important things to take care of. So, finally, she decided to move on with her life. She stopped checking news sources and magazines for any information on them (and the tabloids were _vicious_) and she'd gone about her life. She'd graduated, and she'd had no one there to wait for her or congratulate her. And, as a result of having graduated and no longer being in school, the act that had been paying her bills had run out.

Getting a job was difficult. As it turned out, she wasn't able to list _Helped the Winter Soldier acclimate to normal life, taught him to cope with PTSD, and taught him to accept his past_ on her resume. So she was working as an assistant in a VA hospital in Long Beach. She'd even tried to be a bartender, at one point, to make extra cash, but as it turned out having a missing limb and burn scars that nearly disfigured half your body didn't make you _pretty_ enough to be a bartender. But she liked this job well enough, and it paid the bills; she worked full time at the hospital, keeping the elderly veterans company, delivering medication, being a companion, and it thankfully kept her busy enough to avoid the news and the tabloids about the men she'd spent the summer with and had apparently been forgotten by.

The leg Tony Stark had built her out of guilt for being the reason she'd lost it in the first place, and ended up with the scars, and had lost all of her friends, was easy enough to hide under black slacks and shoes. No one paid much attention to her, aside from staring at her scars, which didn't bother her as much as it used to. The patients, all war veterans themselves, would ask for the story, and she would tell them the half-truth that she told everyone: She'd been a combat medic and had gotten blown up.

No one knew that she'd been the only one to survive that day years ago that Tony Stark had been taken hostage in the Middle East, and she wanted it to stay that way.

She was just getting off work, heading to her car when her she noticed three missed calls from Tony Stark of all people. She hesitated; the calls were from hours ago and there was no voicemail. She wasn't as mad at him as she was at the others, considering they'd never really made it to the friendship level, but she didn't particularly feel like talking to him. Finally, worried that maybe something was wrong, she sat in her car and called him back.

"Dr. Fox," he said, "hello, dear."

"What do you want?"

"How's the job hunt going?"

"Fine. I just got off work."

"Ah," he said. "Where's that at?"

"Why did you call me, Stark?"

"Well, you know how the American people basically hate me, yes? You've noticed."

"Yeah," she said coldly.

"Well, what if I asked you to help me change that? I've got a plan, and I'll pay you more than any job you could possibly get would pay you. What do you say?"

"What's the job?" she asked suspiciously.

"The job is to make me look good," he said. "Like I said, I've got a plan. Basically, you stand around, look pretty, act like we're good friends."

"_What_ would that accomplish?"

"Ah, yes," he said, "well, the other part of the plan is that I reveal to everyone that you're the sole survivor of the attack that happened years ago, and that we've just been reunited, and I built you a leg because I'm such a nice guy, and I've given you a job as my right-hand woman, and we get along _oh so well_ with each other. There may or may not be some tears on your end. Also speeches and interviews. How does that sound?"

She hung up the phone, but it started ringing in her hand again. She answered it.

"Is that a yes, dear?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because my new publicist thinks it's a good idea, and so do I. I'm Iron Man. People can't hate Iron Man. I've got to remind them that I'm a good guy and whatever, and I figured since Pepper's in _treatment_—also my fault—and also running a company, I really could use an assistant, and it just makes sense that you'd be that person. Can't you picture it? _Tony Stark Reunited with Sole Survivor of Tragedy—Tony Stark Builds Wounded Veteran a New Limb—Tony Stark Hires Wounded Veteran—"_

"Enough," she said, "I get it. It's a publicity stunt."

"And…? What do you say?"

* * *

Steve sat between Bucky and Sam. They were in the Stark tower for a meeting with their new publicist, hired courtesy of Tony because, according to him, their image "needed work". Steve didn't care much. After the fiasco with the _Winter Soldier Trial_, after America seemed to have turned it's collective back on him, he couldn't really be bothered to care much about what anyone thought as this moment. He'd never been one to go out of his way to please people.

He'd never actually met or talked to this publicist, Olivia Tate, in person; only brief phone calls or she-saids from Tony. But apparently he'd finally screwed up so badly that it had warranted a visit from Miss Olivia Tate herself.

"She's the best," Tony had insisted. "Trust me, I didn't want the help either, but she knows what she'd doing and she's young. She's taking this industry by storm, mark my words, and we're a project that could make her career. She's going to give us more than anyone else would. Plus… she's the only one who'd agree to help us."

"That doesn't sound promising," Steve had pointed out.

And now he was waiting for her in some conference room in the Stark tower. Tony had gone down to meet her and bring her back up. They waited in silence, feeling like caught schoolboys, and Steve nearly jumped when the glass doors behind them opened. He turned around and saw Tony first, who pulled out a seat at the head of the table, and Miss Olivia Tate stood there for a moment and tossed a magazine on the table at them. They all looked at each other. She wore high heels, a pair of black high-waisted shorts, a low-cut white lace top, and a soft pink blazer. The look suited her; she was young, but something about her commanded the room as soon as she'd walked in.

She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow at them, motioning at the magazine. "Well?" she asked, her voice rang through the room. She knew how to make an entrance, he'd give her that. Finally, she sat at the head of the table and Tony took the seat at the opposite end.

"This is Olivia—" Tony started, but Olivia Tate waved him off.

"We don't need introductions, Mr. Stark," she said coolly. "We all know who we are."

Steve and Tony exchanged a glance; Tony looked mildly taken aback, but his interest had clearly been sparked. Beside Steve, Bucky whistled lowly, eyebrows raised in such a way that said _"damn_" and he wasn't sure if it was in a good way or a bad way yet. But then Bucky pointed at his hair, nodding at Olivia Tate, and Steve looked, noting that there was something odd about her hair. The roots were dark black that quickly turned to a bright silver.

"Aren't you a little young for gray hair?" Steve asked, and her cool brown eyes cut to him.

"You've noticed that I'm young_ and_ that I have gray hair. How observant of you, Captain Rogers. Your deductive skills are impressive. _Yes_, I am young for my hair to be silver, but there's this lovely invention now called _bleach_. I'm not sure if they had it in your era, Captain, but times have changed a lot since then, as I'm sure you've noticed."

She gave him a cool smile, adjusting her glasses, tucking her shoulder length, thick silver hair behind one ear. "Any other questions, boys?" Bucky was grinning and Steve glared at him.

"Damn," Sam said, "just tore you a new one. I like her."

"Fantastic," she said. "Now that I've proved myself, would someone care to explain this?"

She motioned at the magazine with a long, tan hand. He noticed freckles, which were also splashed across her nose and cheekbones. Steve reached forward and took the magazine, reading the headline. _Captain America—Bar Crawl and Bar BRAWL. Is the Captain Spiraling into Drunken Rages? Details inside._

"This is trash," Steve said, looking at the picture of him with a cut on his nose, shouting and being held back by a group of men. Bucky was in the background. The men he was after weren't pictured.

"Maybe so," Olivia said, "but it doesn't matter. The article inside paints you as an angry drunk getting into bar fights because a man looked at you funny. Is that the way you want to be perceived, Captain Rogers?"

"That's not what happened," Steve insisted. The men had cornered him and Bucky, who'd talked him into going to a bar in disguise, and they'd been found out. The men had taunted, taunted, and taunted, and had finally hit a nerve when they'd gone after Bucky and Steve had snapped. The cut on his nose was still healing.

"You put one of them in the hospital," Olivia replied. "Look, my point is that the American people _hate_ you all right now. Especially you." She nodded at Steve.

"Why him?" Sam asked. "If it's because we stood up for Bucky, why don't they hate us all?"

"Oh, they do, don't worry," she said dryly. "But Steve's just the one they're focusing on. He was the biggest name. _Captain America_. And seeing you testify against your country and defend a terrorist? That didn't sit too well with anyone. You're a traitor. You were like a beacon of hope to them, a symbol of America, something good, and in their eyes you turned your back on all of that."

"I did not," Steve said. "This country was founded on the idea that—"

"I don't need to hear it," Olivia said. "It's them you should be convincing. Not me. I believe you."

"And how much did Stark have to pay you to believe us?"

She smiled a slow, cool smile at him, but ignored the question. "You guys need work. A lot of work. This is fixable—people are malleable, and their opinions are easy to shape with the right tools."

"Where d'we start?" Bucky asked.

"Well, try and avoid putting people in the hospital, for one," Olivia said with a roll of her brown eyes. She adjusted her glasses. "But I think it would be a good idea to get out there, let the world see you all doing some good. They need to see that Sergeant Barnes is basically a lapdog now—no offense—and that he's the same man they all looked up to in the Smithsonian, in the comic books and the history books. They need to see you as Captain America's best friend again. They need to see that Captain America isn't an angry, drunk traitor. They need to see that Mr. Stark isn't an asshole who throws his country under the bus—they need to see compassion. You'll be working closely with the military, as always, Mr. Stark. They need to see that you, Sam Wilson, are _more_ than Steve's new buddy who does whatever he says."

"And how do we do that?" Sam asked.

"Events," Olivia said. "Photo ops. Interviews. Get in with the right people. Starting now, I'll be running your publicity schedules. We need to work on appearances—literally, starting with that star on Sergeant Barnes's shoulder there. It can't be that mark anymore, but it should be easy enough to fix—Mr. Stark, Sergeant Barnes, how do you feel about working together to modify it?"

She pulled out a manila envelope from her purse (labeled_ PROJECT LAZARUS)_ and pulled a sheet of paper out of that folder. On it was a sketch of Bucky's arm with the star, except white and blue rings had been painted around it so that it resembled Steve's shield.

"I thought of this," she said, sliding it to them. They all looked at it. "I think it would say a lot for them to see that symbol."

Tony nodded. "This is doable."

"Good," she said. "The next time Sergeant Barnes goes out in public, anywhere where his picture might be snapped, I need that to be on his shoulder. They'll notice." She sighed, folding her hands together on the table. "I know you don't know me," she said to them, "but I need you to trust me and do as I say. This can be very simple or it can be very difficult. You may not like everything that I do, but I ask you to trust it."

"That's a lot to ask," Steve pointed out.

"Maybe," she said. "But you boys need me."

Steve's eyes dropped the to _Project Lazarus_ folder and he nodded at it.

"What's that?"

"What? Oh, Project Lazarus?" She smiled a little. "It's what I'm calling this. You're familiar with the story of Lazarus, right? Dead, brought back to life by Jesus?" They nodded, not following. "Well, let's just say that right now, Lazarus is your public image."

"That make you Jesus?" Bucky asked.

She shrugged, leaving them with the drawing and putting the manila envelope back in her purse. With that she stood. "Anyone have anything else they'd like to say?" She waited a moment, and they were silent. Steve wasn't entirely on board with this idea, but he didn't bother to mention it. "Alright then," she said. "I'll see you all soon. Remember what I said and just—call be before you do _anything_. Please don't make my job harder than it needs to be."

She made to leave and Tony hurried after her. "Can I talk to you?" he asked lowly, but Steve heard. "I've actually got an idea." They stepped out of the room, closing the doors behind them.

* * *

Olivia folded her arms, glancing over her shoulder at the boys in the conference room. "What is it, Mr. Stark?"

"You're a cold little one, you know that?"

"I've been told."

"Anyways, I have an idea—but you're sworn to secrecy."

"You pay me enough," she said, tucking a silver strand of hair behind her ear.

"There's this kid—well, not a kid, she's probably around your age—anyway, remember that incident a few years ago when I got kidnapped and as a result I became Iron Man?"

"Yes."

"Well, remember how it was so tragic and there were no survivors?" She nodded, still waiting. "Well, there _was_ a survivor. One. Girl named Moriah Fox. She lost her leg in the attack. Around a year ago she was here helping those guys out with an issue—she's an official shrink now and everything. But here's my idea—what if I bring her in, pretend none of that stuff happened a year ago, like we're just reuniting. So picture this: I take in poor, amputee, wounded Moriah Fox. I build her a kickass leg. I give her a job. We're good friends, we're _so glad_ we've met again, and I'm so glad she's survived, and isn't it such a small world? And we do a few interviews, do some wounded soldier's events together…"

He trailed off and Olivia was thinking, nodding slowly. "That's a great idea, actually," she said coolly. "Everyone loves a good sob story, and this is a great one. High profile, too. Everyone remembers the day Tony Stark got kidnapped. As long as no one finds out you all actually met _before_—it would have to seem real to pull it off as a chance happening. And if you could throw some stuff in there about how she forgives you, since your weapons did it, since they were killed and she was wounded as they tried to get to _you_… yeah, I think it'd go a long way. Give her a call."

Tony nodded.

"You did good in there, killer," he said, "I think they like you."

"I don't care if they like me, Mr. Stark," she said waspishly, turning to walk away. "I don't need to be liked. You're not paying me to be liked."

* * *

"You'll love it," Tony assured her, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Photoshoots, interviews, appearances. You can be my little orphan Annie, and I'll be Daddy Warbucks. Exact same concept. Get it?"

"I get it, Stark," she said with a roll of her eyes.

"Oh, that reminds me. Rules. So, when we're in public where people can overhear, you call me _Tony_. Because we're friends. When you're working for me in private, it's Mr. Stark. You're my personal assistant. That's just how it works, nothing personal.

"You can have your own room," he went on. "I'm going to need you to be on-call 24/7, so it makes it easier if you live here. You're going to need a makeover as well. We're going to doll you up. You're going to look deadly. Also, no more pants. As long as this goes on, you'll be wearing dresses and skirts. If it gets cold, wear a jacket, but you'll be showing off that leg. I'm working on a few more models, for publicity's sake."

Her head was spinning. What had she gotten herself into? She half wanted to back out and half wanted to get started immediately.

"Get your sleep tonight," Tony rambled on. "You're meeting the publicist tomorrow, and she's taking you out to pick out your wardrobe. She knows what she's doing. It'll be a busy day for you tomorrow, Dr. Fox, I hope you're excited."

"Oh, it's killing me," she drawled.

"Finally," he said, "because I can see that it's eating at you, I'll just answer the question you've been dying to ask. _Yes_, I've talked to Sam, Bucky, and Steve. Yes, they're fine. Yes, they're avoiding you. I'm sure you'll run into them eventually; they tend to pop in from time to time and we're all working with this publicist, so that's going to be nice and awkward, I'm sure."

"Do they know I'm here?"

"They do not."

They'd stopped outside her door. Her heart pounded. He'd been right; she'd been avoiding asking, but the answers didn't make the feeling any better. She stepped inside her room, closing the door between her and Tony.

It had been three weeks since the call; it had taken her a week to agree and then two weeks to quit her job and go work for Tony Stark on this publicity stunt, which was basically what it was. She'd be lying and working very closely with him, hoping to sway the public in his favor again. And, now that she had the answers to the questions she'd been dying to know, she hoped that she didn't run into them.

**AN: Chapter one! Since this is the first chapter to the sequel, reviews are really important to me! Let me know who's following and let me know what you think of the new OC, Olivia Tate. I love her, but I'd like to know what you think of her first impression.**

**Thank you all for your support! I hope you continue to enjoy this story – it'll be more romance-centered, in some ways. That romance I know you were all waiting for in the last one will be in this one. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

"So you're really alone," Olivia murmured, standing behind Mo in the mirror. "No friends, no family?"

"None," Mo said, adjusting the dress.

"That's beautiful. We can definitely use that," Olivia said, and Mo cut her a look. "Well, I mean, it's not, but for our purposes—"

"It's the perfect sob story," Mo said. "I get it." She smiled a little at Olivia in the mirror.

Mo had found that she liked the other woman and her frank, no-bullshit approach to things. It was refreshing. Mo figured that if she was going to be used, she'd at least prefer to be working with someone like Olivia, who was honest, rather than someone who tried to lie and make her feel better about things.

She was a stark contrast to the other woman, with her perfect, thick, wavy silver hair, her angular brown eyes, her calm, serious face. Olivia came in a smaller, softer package, nearly the opposite of Mo's hardened, scarred appearance. Mo had never realized how, well, _brutal_ she looked until she was standing beside Olivia, who was pristine.

She didn't mind, though.

They'd already finished with the initial part of Mo's makeover, starting with her hair. Using Tony's business credit card, Olivia had taken her to get a smoothing treatment done on her hair, one that she'd always wanted but had never been able to afford. Her wild curls had been tamed and her hair had been colored, only slightly, to take on more of a caramel color. It fell in silky waves a few inches past her collarbone, and her eyes stood out more than they had before.

"I don't like this dress," Mo decided. "I look like a killer whale." The dress was black on the sides and white in the middle. Olivia wrinkled her delicate nose.

"You're right. Try the next one."

The next one was better. It was black and fairly conservative until it reached her mid thigh, where on one side it was very short, tapering to a point on the other side, which was longer. It showed off her prosthetic.

"Mr. Stark will love that one," Olivia said, and Mo agreed. Tony's strict _no pants_ policy meant that they were shopping for an assortment of dresses and skirts, and they'd been doing pretty well so far. Mo had left herself in Olivia's hands. The woman clearly knew what she was doing, and Mo only spoke up if she hated something.

"I think I'm going to like working with you," Olivia said. "You get it. The others—particularly Captain Rogers—aren't so keen on all the parties and the events. They're difficult."

"I bet," Mo said coolly, and Olivia must have noticed the change in her tone because she looked up, arching a perfect eyebrow.

"I know you knew them. What happened?"

"I helped Bucky out with some mental stuff," she said off handedly. "I had to leave to go back to school, and I haven't heard from them since. That was a year ago."

"I see," she said. "I thought it was strange that Tony was so insistent that I didn't let them know about you. He said they'd be furious."

Mo rolled her eyes, then looked at Olivia. "They're being hard on you?"

She hesitated, her face smooth, giving away nothing. "I shouldn't—"

"Come on," Mo said, giving her a look. "Who am I going to tell?"

Olivia hesitated still, then seemed to sigh a little, like she needed to get it off her chest. "They're just difficult," she said lowly. "It's like they're _trying_ to make this hard for me. Captain Rogers—he's just a ninety-five year old punk stuck in a young man's body. He's a pain in my ass."

Mo started laughing.

"And that Barnes character—you put those two together and it's one bad tabloid after another. They're a nightmare. Barnes is an actual old man. '_This hot dog is how much_?!'" Olivia cried, mocking Bucky's voice. "'_What, is it made out of gold?' _An absolute nightmare."

Mo laughed, doubling over. "That didn't happen," she said.

"Oh, it did," she said, clearly annoyed, "and there's an interview with the hotdog vendor in some garbage newspaper to prove it."

"Oh, my god," Mo laughed, wiping her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

Olivia shrugged one shoulder. "They're nothing I can't handle."

The two turned back to the dress, and Mo was uncertain about it. It showed off the leg, of course, but also her arms and collarbones. "I dunno," she said. "The scars…"

"We want to show those off," Olivia said. "We want to draw attention to them. When the public sees how badly you've been hurt and sees that you're friends with Tony, it'll say a lot. We're trying to pull on heartstrings."

Mo continued to look at herself. There was a reason she didn't often wear things like this; she preferred to cover her scars, which were pretty extensive on her right side. Olivia, seeming to sense her unease, stepped up to her.

"Trust me," she urged. "I know this is hard for you. But they're going to _adore_ you. Just be yourself, and be honest, and you'll have them wrapped around your little finger."

* * *

"What did I get myself into?"

Mo was practically in a panic and Olivia was doing damage control. "Look at me," Olivia said as someone worked on Mo's makeup. "You're going to be fine. This is easy."

"I don't like public speaking."

Olivia closed her eyes. Of course. She pinched the bridge of her nose and looked at Mo, who's newly manicured hands were hooked into claws. Her eyes were frightened.

"I need you to breathe for me, Dr. Fox," Olivia soothed. "Look. Just go up there, and answer any questions they ask you and answer them as honestly as you can while sticking to the story. It's only a press conference. It'll be quick. All Tony's going to do is announce that he's found you, and that you'll be working collaboratively to raise money to help soldiers who's come home and are suffering from PTSD. That's it. It'll be over quickly."

Mo swallowed and looked up at Olivia, who gave her a nod. Olivia watched her blow out a breath.

"Leave the scars," Olivia told the makeup artist. "We want to show them off."

Olivia paced away, hunting down Tony. He was calm, as usual, ready, dressed nicely. She pressed the cards into his hands.

"I know you have a habit of going off script," she said coolly. "Stick to the cards. We have a plan."

Tony smirked at her and read over the cards. Olivia blew out a breath.

"How's Fox holding up?"

"She'll be fine," Olivia said, and a slow smile spread over Tony's face and she followed him over to meet Mo, who's makeup was done, her hair down and pulled over one shoulder, baring the scars. The scars were bad, Olivia noticed, and she felt an odd surge of sympathy for the other woman, admiring her confidence—or at least the confident front she was clearly struggling to construct.

"How you holding up, champ?" Tony asked, and Mo just nodded.

"Come on," Olivia said, "they're ready for you."

She stood beside him in front of all of the people, all of the reporters intent on tearing him down. She heard the murmurs, wondering who the woman—Mo—was. They'd made sure that the _STARK INDUSTRIES_ logo on her thigh was clearly visible, as Olivia was sure that they'd pick up on it and put it together on their own. Tony stepped up and the room fell silent, and, to Olivia's relief, for once he stuck with the cards.

"I'm sure you all remember the day when I was taken captive in the Middle East," Tony began. "Young Americans died that day—because of me. Many of them. For years, I was under the impression that there were no survivors, and I believed that until just recently. As it turns out, there was, in fact, one survivor."

There was a dull uproar, and Tony raised his hands, quieting them. "The woman standing to my left is ex-Sergeant-now-doctor Moriah Fox. We were reunited only a couple of weeks ago, and I'm happy to announce that she and I will be working very closely together for the foreseeable future. We'll be working on a few projects, designed to help out and raise money for our veterans, for the men and women who often slip through the cracks because their scars aren't as easily seen as…"

Olivia glanced at Mo as he went on. She was taking deep breaths; it was almost her turn. Olivia closed her eyes for a moment, praying that Mo could handle this, that she wouldn't screw it up. Her heart thudded in her chest as Tony handed the room over to Mo. The cameras flashed as she stepped forward, and Olivia noticed that, for a split second, she seemed to lock up, to freeze in place, before she blinked and took the stand. She said a few words, confirming that she and Tony would, indeed, be working together, and she finally allowed questions. Olivia noticed that her voice sounded different when she spoke, and she realized that Mo must have been using her military voice.

"Dr. Fox," one man said, "how did you and Mr. Stark run into each other again?"

"Through a mutual friend," she replied. Olivia could see her relaxing, growing more comfortable, and she was suddenly very proud of the other girl. She didn't know her well yet, had only spent a few days around her, but she didn't imagine that it was very easy to stand in front of a crowd of hungry strangers, scars exposed, and open up to them in a way, even if it was just for good press.

"Dr. Fox," said a woman, "why have you come forward now? Why did you lie about being the only survivor?"

"I wanted to forget that it happened," she said.

"So money had noting to do with it?"

Mo's eyes flashed and Olivia tensed. "No," Mo said icily. "Mr. Stark isn't paying me a cent. We're doing this for the soldiers."

Olivia released a breath. After that, it was over quickly. She braced herself for the onslaught of calls and emails she would be getting, requesting photoshoots and interviews. The room cleared out, leaving Olivia, Mo, Tony, and a few bodyguards. Mo's hands were shaking.

"You did well," Olivia told her. "Both of you. Thank you for sticking to the cards, Mr. Stark."

"I do that from time to time," he said.

Her phone started buzzing. _Wow,_ she thought, _that was quick_. But when she saw who was calling she sighed and looked up at Tony and Mo, flashing the screen at them. "I'm sorry," she said, stepping away, "I have to take this."

* * *

"Hello, Captain Rogers," Olivia said coolly.

"So this was Stark's big plan," Steve said, and she could hear the fury in his voice. "Did it ever occur to you, Miss Tate, that we wanted to keep her out of this for a reason?"

"You never really explained that reason," Olivia said calmly. "Besides, I think it's a great idea."

"Damn it," Steve said. "They're going to tear her apart."

"They're going to love her," Olivia countered.

"You're going to use her," Steve growled. "This is low. Even for someone like you."

"You don't know anything about me," Olivia started, but the line had already gone dead. She sighed, passing a hand over her face and shaking her head. Mo stepped out of the room and Olivia smiled at her. "How do you feel?"

"Alright, I guess," Mo said, "it wasn't as bad as I was expecting."

"You looked amazing," Olivia said. "Now, I'm going to be setting up interviews and photoshoots—you're about to become America's sweetheart, Dr. Fox, I could see it on their faces. You're going to have to grow a thick skin. Not everything they say will be nice."

Mo nodded.

"I'll get you through this," Olivia promised. "We're a team, alright? I'll do everything I can to make you look good, so that you can make _him_ look good."

Mo was still nodding. "What did Steve want?"

"To chew me out, as usual," Olivia said. "Nothing I can't handle. He's just not happy about you stepping into the public eye like this."

"I'm normally more comfortable behind the scenes," Mo admitted.

"You'll get used to it," Olivia assured her. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot to do." As she said it, her phone was ringing again and she sighed. It was Steve.

"This is Olivia," she said, walking away from Mo.

"We need to talk," Steve said, and Olivia could tell by his tone that he was still irritated.

"What can I do for you, Captain Rogers?"

**AN:** **You guys. The reviews. I am dying. Thank you all SO MUCH. I couldn't believe I got so many, so I cranked this one out for you as quickly as I could. Let me know your thoughts!**


	3. Chapter 3

There was no other way to put it: Olivia Tate was _short_. And not "Oh, she's a little short"-short; no, Olivia was, in her opinion, embarrassingly short. It was the sole reason why she always, _always_ wore ridiculously high heels when she did business; it was why she made an effort to always look perfect, pristine; it was part of the reason why she was so cold and waspish. Being taken seriously, she had discovered, was incredibly difficult when it looked like you hadn't grown an inch since elementary school. In her heels, it put her near average height, and it made the constant pain in her feet almost worth it. So far, not too many people had picked up on her height—or lack thereof. In her heels, complete with subtle, hidden platforms, she usually appeared to be around five feet, five inches; perfectly average for a woman.

In spite of her height, Olivia was not a woman who was intimidated easily, and if she was, she did a fantastic job hiding it. Now was one of those times. She was in Captain Rogers's apartment and he was _towering_ over her; the man was goliath, all bulging muscle, blond hair, blue eyes; all towering height. He was at least a foot taller than her, even in her heels. She should have worn taller ones, she thought regretfully. That, coupled with the fact that his two companions, who rivaled him in size, were also in the room, left Olivia feeling very, very small and inadequate.

So she crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow at Steve Rogers, who was furious with her. She lifted her eyes to meet his, refusing to crane her neck to look at him.

"Take it down a notch, Captain," she said, her tone frosty. He was standing too close, so she placed a manicured hand on his rather impressive chest, digging her nails in just slightly, and pushed him back a step. She shook her hair out of her face. "Now," she said, calm as ever, "I'm sorry that you're upset with my decision, but that decision does not concern you. Tony is just as much my client as you are. Involving Moriah Fox is a great idea, and I stand by that idea."

"Of course it concerns us," Sam said, looming behind Steve. "She's our friend."

"Oh?" Olivia said, "I hadn't noticed. I thought you were avoiding her."

"To keep her out of this," Steve said.

"Not like it was easy," Bucky muttered.

"Well, she's in it now," Olivia said. "I don't see why that warrants a visit."

"You can't just do things like this without communicating with us," Steve insisted.

"Like I said," Olivia sighed, her tone bored. She inspected a long, white-manicured fingernail with disinterest. "You're not my only client. Miss Fox is working for _Tony_, not for you. That's how I'm fixing his image. _You_, on the other hand, could still use a lot of work, Captain Rogers, and pushing around and trying to intimidate your publicist isn't going to get you anywhere. I _want_ to do this for you. I care—"

"Oh," Steve said sharply, snatching her hand, forcing her to look away from her nail and up at him. "And just how much is Stark paying you to _care?_" Olivia clenched her jaw. Steve smirked. "Exactly. You're only doing this for the money; let's do each other a favor and quit pretending otherwise."

"Listen to me, Captain Rogers," she said lowly, taking her hand back, refusing to appear shaken. Good God, his hands were huge. She felt suddenly very breakable. "And listen carefully. I have a job to do here, and you are making it _incredibly_ difficult. So far, I don't like you. How am I supposed to convince the world to like you if I don't even like you? I am trying to help you, and things would go a lot more smoothly if you would just _shut up_ and do what I say. You're fighting the wrong person."

Steve ran a hand through his hair furiously, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Olivia went on. "Moriah Fox is a part of this now, and she's not going anywhere. She understands the risks. She's an adult and she made her own decision."

"We're supposed to be a team," Steve growled. "You made this decision on your own."

"Going into this," Olivia said slowly, "I thought that Mr. Stark would be the problem. I'm finding that _you're_ the problem, Captain. Mr. Stark has been nothing if not cooperative. You have no say in the decisions I make for Mr. Stark—Fox was one of those decisions. Now, if I organize an interview for you that you don't want to go to, then, fine, you have a right to disagree. But unless it directly involves you, your job is to sit back and let me fix the mess you've all made."

"That mess being Bucky's trial," Steve said lowly. "_That's_ the mess you're referring to."

"It is, yes."

He looked livid. This man standing over her looked very, very different from the man she had grown up thinking he was. She could see the anger in his blue eyes, his brows drawn low.

"Listen to me," Steve said, pointing a finger in her face. She stared at it, unimpressed. "I know people like you."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," she said coolly.

"I know you're a manipulator," he went on, "and I know you can't be trusted. I know you're trying to capitalize on some poor girl's trauma to make your career, and I know you're jumping on that god _damned_ media circus, mockery of a trial to try and make a name for yourself, and I think it's disgusting."

Sam urged him to calm down. He was standing just behind Steve, now. Olivia stood straight as Steve loomed over her. When he spoke, when he got really angry, the skin on his nose wrinkled in a way that was truly terrifying. He looked at her with such disgust, such _disdain—_it made her feel even smaller than she was. But she was the master at maintaining a poker face, _thank God_, because on the inside she felt like a chastised, scared little girl.

She was the queen of that single-eyebrow raise and half smirk, and she turned it on him full force. "That being said," she breathed, pushing his finger slowly out of her face, "Moriah Fox is in on this, and she isn't going anywhere. So you can do one of two things: You can either grow up, get over it, and move forward so that people don't want to kill you on the streets… _or_ you can continue with your tantrum and end up nowhere. I'll give you some time to think about it."

She walked past him, taking a slow, steady breath through her nose. "You'd better figure it out quickly," she said, "because we've got a lot of work to do."

Bucky was sitting backward in a chair, his arms folded casually on the back. His eyes were watchful, unnervingly watchful, Olivia thought.

"You have my number." She reached for the door and paused in the doorway, looking back at Bucky. "And Barnes, get yourself a decent haircut, please. You look like a bum."

* * *

As soon as they had confirmed that they would continue working with her, Olivia knew the next step: she needed to get them all together. That meant Tony, Mo, Steve, Bucky, and Sam. Together. In one room.

What had she been thinking?

All she knew was she was tired of their issues, whatever they were, with Mo's involvement. She also knew that she had to make sure everyone was on the same page. And, fed up, she'd decided it couldn't wait, so she'd asked Tony for a meeting and he'd obliged. Of all of them, Tony was the most supportive of her and her ideas—he never had a negative thing to say and seemed to always appreciate her efforts. He was the only one who knew the reason behind this meeting, as she feared that had the others known, they wouldn't have agreed to come.

So, naturally, Tony arrived first, letting her into the conference room that seemed to be made of glass. She thanked him, and soon after came Steve, Sam, and Bucky, all at once, which made sense; she knew that they lived together, sharing a small, dodgey apartment in Brooklyn. Mo was late, which was to be expected; from what she'd heard, Tony was running her all over the place.

Steve sat in one of the chairs, Bucky on his left, Sam on his right. Tony stood with Olivia near the door, and Steve seemed to be growing impatient. Soon enough, the sound of clicking heels sounded down the hall, rapidly growing closer until the door opened.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Mo gasped, "some asshole couldn't take no for an answer and—"

Her eyes sliced to the boys seated at the table, then to Olivia, the green flashing, accusing. Mo froze for a second, then turned on her heel and reached for the door.

"Ah, ah, ah," Tony said quickly, sliding between her and the door.

"Have a seat, please," Olivia said, looking Mo up and down. In a lower voice, she said: "You look stunning."

"You said to dress nice," she hissed back, and she had. Olivia knew some of the situation, and, woman-to-woman, she wanted Mo to look perfect when she was reunited with the ones who'd blown her off, essentially, and she did. She wore a black pencil skirt with a slit in the side, a green blouse tucked in, her newly-silky hair pinned and piled over one shoulder. The green in the blouse brought out the green in her eyes, and her heels were insanely tall; she towered over Olivia. Her legs looked great in them. "I didn't know _this _was why."

"You're welcome," Olivia said, smirking a little.

Mo straightened her blouse and fiddled with the tablet she held in her hands, removing the earpiece that kept her and Tony connected from her ear. She set them on the table as Olivia came around to sit on one end, Tony on the other. Olivia noticed that while Mo sat across from Steve, she very pointedly didn't look at any of them. Sam was looking around the room, Steve looked at her and then away to watch Olivia, and Bucky was watching Mo intently. For a few moments, no one spoke, and at last it was Tony who broke the silence.

"Awkward," he whistled. "Olive, dear, can't you just _feel_ the awkward?"

"It's Olivia," she said. "And yes, which is exactly the problem."

Mo looked at her. "What problem?"

"This problem," Olivia sighed. "I can't have this." She motioned vaguely between them.

"There's no problem," Mo replied, her tone frosty.

"Mo," Sam tried, and Olivia watched as Mo's eyes skipped right over him to fall on Tony.

"Weird," she said to Tony. "Did you hear something?"

Tony scratched his head in confusion. "Kind of an annoying sound, now that you mention it."

"Oh, that's funny," Sam said. "Real funny. You two buddies now? You two bros?"

Tony grinned. "As a matter of fact, we are." He smiled a winning smile at Mo, who returned it. Olivia groaned. Tony and Mo had bonded quickly, it was true, and sometimes their antics gave her a headache. But she would let this play out. _You can't control everything, Olivia,_ she reminded herself silently.

"He didn't contact you either, Mo," Sam pointed out, and Mo finally looked at him.

"He never _promised_ to, Sam," she snapped. "We weren't friends."

"She's right," Tony said, "I just got her blown up and built her a leg. My debt ended there." Sam gave Tony a furious, deadly look. "And we're friends _now_."

"What did you want from us?" Sam demanded. "You saw what happened."

"I saw the trial," she said coldly. "I saw what they put him through." She pointed at Bucky. "I saw it from my couch in my living room in my apartment, _Sam_, and I should have been there. _I should have been there_."

"We were trying to protect you," Bucky tried, but she glared at him just as furiously as she glared at Sam. "You'd have been a public figure. After what happened that day with Hydra—"

Mo opened her arms. "Well, I'm a public figure now," she pointed out.

"Which is exactly the problem," Steve growled.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, and Olivia watched the exchange silently, waiting to step in. "Alright? Maybe we should have—"

"I wanted to be there," Mo rasped. "I could have helped. I could have testified—"

"You're only human," Bucky said. "You'd be dead."

"Come on," Sam said softly. "Be as mad as you want, but you have to understand that."

Mo pinched the bridge of her nose. Olivia wondered if she was the only one who noticed Mo was trying desperately to keep calm. Finally, she snapped.

"_That's not the point, Sam!"_ Mo finally shouted. "I was there for you! For _months!_ I gave you three everything I had, he nearly killed me, and when he goes on _trial_, you drop off the face of the planet. I had to sit on my couch like the rest of the world and hear the verdict. Not a word from you. _Not a word._"

They stared at each other.

"I don't like to be used," she said more softly, looking away from them all.

"We didn't—"

"That's _exactly_ what happened," Mo said. She chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes downcast. "And the only reason I'm here again is because someone needs me for something."

* * *

Mo swallowed convulsively. Her heart was pounding. She stared at her hands on the table and laced her fingers together. Sam said nothing. She took a deep breath, praying someone would say something, and it was Olivia who answered her prayers. Thank God for Olivia Tate.

"Well," Olivia said. "Now that that's out of the way, we have some things to discuss."

It took a moment, but everyone gave her their attention. Mo refused to look at any of them, although she noticed Bucky kept looking at her. He'd gotten a haircut; it had been the first thing she'd noticed. Shorter on the sides, longer on the top. Modern. It looked nice—not hat she'd ever tell him.

"First, let's make one thing clear to everyone," Olivia began. "While we're all a _team_, so to speak, this team is made up of two separate smaller teams. Team A: Tony and Mo. Team B: Captain Rogers, Sam Wilson, and Barnes. Now, while teams A and B may interact as one larger team, we need to keep in mind that Team A has goals that are independent of Team B, and so on. Team B has no say on what I do with Team A. Sometimes the teams will work together, sometimes they won't. Understood?"

Nods from everyone.

"Further, I don't care about your personal problems. But while we're in public, we all _love_ each other. We're friends. Captain Rogers, you need to learn to play well with Team A, since you're the biggest problem at the moment. Miss Fox, remember not to act too familiar with the gentlemen on Team B."

"That won't be a problem," she said coolly. She watched Olivia nod, her eyes landing on each of them in turn.

"Are we clear on the terms?" Olivia asked.

"Crystal," Steve said.

"Wonderful."

She could feel their eyes on her and she pointedly ignored them. Olivia was right; she could fake it for the public, but she was so furious, and being used in such a way genuinely had hurt. She'd never admit to the nights she'd felt so alone and stupid for thinking they'd been friends, but they were there, and they were a sore spot. She'd just been a fool, having not expected them to be the using type, but they were just the same as anyone else. She smoothed a hand over her hair, taking a deep breath, locking eyes with Tony, who winked at her.

"Tony," Olivia said, drawing their attention.

"Yes, dear?"

"You're going to be hosting a benefit Friday night. The proceeds will be donated to charities that help wounded soldiers. I'll let you and Miss Fox decide which ones."

"How fun," Tony drawled.

"It'll be the first of many to come," Olivia said. "We've got a lot of work to do, but if you all can work with me—"

"Wait," Sam said, "what about us? I'm hearing a lot about how you'll be helping Tony, but—"

"Don't interrupt me, please, Mr. Wilson," Olivia said, and her tone was like ice and Mo grinned. "I was getting to that. The three of you will also attend the benefit, which will consist of dinner and a small, calm after party—not a _party_, Mr. Stark. There will be wounded soldiers there, which will make for a great photo-op—"

At this, Steve snorted, and Mo looked at him for the first time. He shook his head, looking more irritated than she'd ever seen him.

"Is there a problem, Captain?" Olivia asked.

"A photo-op," Steve said. "That's really all they are to you, isn't it?"

"We've been over this, Captain," Olivia said, sounding tired of the conversation, annoyed.

"Right," Steve said, nodding. "That's right, I forgot. Continue."

"If you're sure," she said coldly. "May I?"

"Go on," he said just as coldly. Tony whistled lowly and caught Mo's eye, making a face.

"As I was saying," Olivia went on, "it'll make for a great photo-op. Pictures of Captain America, the Falcon, and the Winter Soldier, supporting the troops. It's just what people need to see, considering they think you've actively turned your back on your country to defend a terrorist, remember?"

"And what about the soldiers," Mo said. "How will they react to the Winter Soldier being there?"

"I've taken care of it," she said. "The soldiers who are attending are all people who were sympathizers during the trial."

"Smart," Tony said, nodding in approval. Olivia rolled her eyes.

"So," she said, "that means we all have to play nice. Understand? I don't want any hostility at the dinner—it is _imperative_ that you all get along. Captain Rogers, if you don't want to be there, you need to fake it. Believe it or not, these soldiers are actually excited about this. Don't ruin it for them."

* * *

When the meeting was over, Olivia was the first to clear out, which left Mo annoyed; she'd wanted a word with her. She'd also wanted to be the first one out to avoid what was about to happen; the three men were descending on her. She looked helplessly at Tony, who glanced between them, eyebrow raised.

"You've got fifteen minutes, Miss Fox," he said, stepping out of the room.

"Wait—" she started, groaning as he hurried away. Finally, she turned to the other three, crossing her arms. "Can I help you?"

"Look, Mo," Sam said, "we've wanted to talk to you—"

"It's not like it's been easy," Bucky said, and she looked at him, taking in the new, modern version of him. Olivia was doing a nice job, she thought, but quickly looked back at Sam.

"It's not hard to pick up the phone," she said.

"Hydra—" Steve started, and she rolled her eyes, throwing her hand up.

"Oh, god, enough with the Hydra excuses," she said coldly. "Look, we're all adults here. I'm alright. I can handle it."

"Mo, don't be like that—"

"Tell me, Sam," she said, "did you _ever_ plan on talking to me? After everything the three of us went through together, did _any_ of you consider talking to me again?" She stared them down.

"We were just trying to do what was best," Bucky said, tone hard. "Don't be mad at him. It was my idea."

"I don't care, to be honest," she said lightly. "The point is, any one of you could have called, and you didn't. Instead of being there for the trial, I was miles away. I didn't know what was going on. And the fact of the matter is if I hadn't agreed to help Tony, you wouldn't be talking to me. So let's keep it that way, alright? I think it'll be easier for everyone." She pushed past them, inserting her earpiece.

"It's just business," she said as she reached the door. "I'll see you all at the benefit."

**AN: Thanks for reading! Review, please? I can't wait to write the benefit/dinner scene. Got a lot of fun stuff planned for this, including some of the boys trying to fix things… How do you like Olivia's opening scene? I want to give her more screen time, and I, for one, loved her interaction with Steve!**


	4. Chapter 4

It didn't take Olivia long to realize that Moriah Fox was going to make a great ally in the face of Captain America and his cronies. It had been Thursday night, the night before the event, when Olivia had gathered them all together to go over their outfits and the details of the benefit, when Steve had made some comment, something small, inconsequential, something she couldn't even remember now. But before Olivia could defend herself, Mo had stepped up and told Steve to lay off, that Olivia was just trying to help, and maybe he should just try listening to her.

As if she hadn't already, Olivia had decided right then that she liked Moriah. She had a lot of qualities that Olivia liked, some that Olivia wished she possessed herself; she was stubborn, hard-headed, but she was also infinitely kind and understanding. She never seemed to hold a grudge if Olivia snapped at her, which she honestly tried not to do. Olivia wished she possessed some of Moriah's kindness, she envied that part of the other woman. That, and she envied her height; she had mentioned to Mo, on one occasion, that she was jealous, that she bet Mo had never had trouble being taken seriously, and to that Mo had laughed.

"Girl," Mo had chuckled, "I was the only woman in my company. Don't even get me started on not being taken seriously. I could write a book on it."

And it was something they had in common, Olivia had discovered, and their bond was quick to solidify, complete with sly jokes and secret looks whenever any of the boys was being pig-headed.

The benefit was tonight, and Olivia was nervous. She prayed and prayed that everything would go smoothly. There would be a journalist and a couple of photographers there to take down every single detail, and she couldn't stress the importance enough to her teams. Mo seemed to get it, had told her to relax, that everything could be fine. Olivia has scoffed; Mo had yet to realize that Olivia Tate was very rarely _relaxed_.

And so Olivia stood and waited for them in her painfully high heels. Mo was in her room somewhere in the tower, and her text had informed her that she was almost ready. Tony had arrived already, looking impeccable; she'd picked their outfits, going for a casual-formal look, and Tony, of course, looked just as he should. It was the boys she was nervous about, but when they arrived, she let out a huge sigh of relief.

"You look _amazing_," she said, approaching them. "Oh, thank god."

Bucky smirked. She'd dressed him in black slacks, a white, collared undershirt, and a dark, burgundy blazer. His gray coat was gripped in one hand, his freshly cut hair styled up. He looked good, and the smirk on his face let her and everyone else know that he knew it.

"You look nice," Steve said to Olivia, and she thanked him. He did as well, the blue in his blazer bringing out the stunning blue of his eyes. She was startled by the compliment but reminded herself not to hold a grudge. This was a new day. Sam, dressed in shades of gray, grinned at Olivia and then looked up at the sound of Mo approaching. He whistled and Olivia caught her giving him a shriveling look, her upper lip curling.

"Damn," Sam said, scratching the back of his head. "Still mad, huh?"

"No," she said nonchalantly, then opened her arms and did a quick spin for Olivia. "Good enough?" She wore a knee length cocktail dress, dark red, vintage. It gave off the sort of old-timey look Olivia had been going for with all of them.

"Beautiful," Olivia said, gripping her arms. She gathered them all around. "Everyone's in there waiting," she said. "There's a few tables. Table 1 will be headed by you, Mr. Stark. Table 2 is Mo and Captain Rogers. Table 3 is Wilson and Barnes. You're free to move around and mingle at will, of course, but this is where you're starting. Now, remember to be pleasant. Tonight isn't about _you_. It's about _them._ These men have been through hell, many of them are amputees or disfigured, and they paid a great amount to be here with you tonight. Make it memorable."

* * *

There was an uproar of laughter, and Olivia smiled softly. That, she knew, would be Mo's table. Being an ex-soldier herself, she had a way with them; she and Sam both did. Steve and Bucky were getting on fine, but they seemed a bit lost. Neither of them had been to the Middle East, as it turned out, and it was something they didn't have in common with the others. Olivia hung around the outskirts, just watching, checking in with the photographers and journalists.

Mo's table and Sam's table were the loudest, though it was two different kinds of loud. Mo's table was prone to the uproars of laughter, while Sam's was hooting and hollering. Tony was doing well, too, making jokes about his time in the cave. So far, the night was successful. From what she'd heard, the soldiers were getting along well with Bucky, congratulating him on his freedom. They adored Mo, and they all enjoyed teasing Steve and Bucky about their age, poking fun, telling them how much war had changed since the 40s.

Olivia caught Steve and Bucky exchange a glance and Steve gave a nod. He excused himself from his table and traded places with Bucky, which made sense; Steve was basically the guest of honor, he was the big draw, and he needed to make his rounds. She also noticed that Mo stiffened, only slightly, as Bucky took a seat next to her, smirk in place, joining in on the conversation. Mo went along smoothly, but Olivia saw the sudden tension in her shoulders, noted the way she angled her body just slightly away from him. She caught Mo's eye and gave her a look, and Mo just rolled her eyes ever so slightly, the message clear: _Relax, Olivia._

* * *

"Hey, there he is!"

Bucky was greeted with loud, masculine welcomes as he took a seat beside Mo. He was surprised at how friendly these soldiers were. There was a sort of brotherhood between them all, and he hadn't felt alienated for once. All of them were wounded in one way or another, a few of them missing limbs, and they didn't hide their fascination with Bucky's arm; he'd answered the same few questions time and again, and it was only now that he was starting to feel overwhelmed.

He knew Mo didn't realize it, but that was why he had come to sit by her. He'd gone a year without her help, but now that she was here, he still sought her out for comfort, even if he was quiet about it. And now, feeling overwhelmed by the noise and the friendly greetings, by the questions and the laughter, he and Steve had traded places, and just like always her presence was a gentle balm on his frayed nerves, even if she wanted nothing to do with him.

She was in the middle of telling a story about camel spiders. The other men shuddered and laughed, nodding their heads as though they knew what a camel spider was, but Bucky was lost.

"A what?" he asked.

"Camel spider, dude," said a man who had burn scars all over his face. He showed him the size with his hands. "Gigantic, nasty desert spiders."

"Didn't have those in Germany?" asked another.

"Nah," he said.

"Scariest shit about the war," laughed the first man. "Never again."

He was still a little lost, and it was Mo who took pity on him: "They're gigantic spiders," she said, "huge. Freakishly huge. Nasty bite, too, and a total menace out there."

And then she continued with her stories, how it was common for the men to catch them and set up camel spider fighting rings and bet cigarettes on the spiders. The soldiers were laughing and nodding; apparently this was a common practice. Mo was smiling, her hair swept to the side to show off her burn scars; along her jaw, her neck, her shoulder and her right arm. In the low cut dress, he could see that they continued farther down, over her chest. She cleared her throat and he looked up at her eyes, noting that she looked annoyed. He tried to give her his trademark, coyly-innocent smile, but she wasn't having any of it.

And then the conversation turned to him. Mo faked interest well enough, to her credit, her hand resting on her cheek, eyebrows raised inquisitively, nodding along as he discussed his arm, but he was growing tired. Agitated. He hadn't been surrounded by this many people since his trial, and it wore on his nerves then just as it did now.

The soldiers also liked to point out his Brooklyn accent, which, for whatever reason, caused him to try to hide it. He felt like he was shrinking; he wasn't ready for this, he realized. This was too much, all at once. And while he was "recovered," as they had testified, he wasn't ready to jump in like this. He could only fake it for so long before he began to feel trapped, like the walls were closing in.

He was looking down at his metal hand, examining it as they questioned him on it, those with clunky prosthetics clearly envious. It clenched, almost against his will, and he found himself biting his lower lip. His heart jumped in his chest. It had been a while, he thought, since he'd felt so amped up with anxiety, and he told himself to get it together. But the noise, the chatter all around him—

He started, only slightly, his leg jerking when he felt something touch it. He realized only a moment later that Mo had bumped his leg under the table with hers, casually, her eyes trained on one soldier who was asking if his arm could feel the way skin and bone could. She nodded and along with him, but for just a moment she looked over at Bucky and she caught his eye, just the way she always used to, and she gave him a look: _Are you okay?_

For just a moment he considered lying, brushing her off. But then he swallowed, smiled a little, closed-mouth smile, and shook his head, the tiniest motion, and Mo looked away again as though nothing had happened.

"Man," said the man enviously, "maybe I should get Hydra to take _me_. I'd kill for an arm like that."

It was just a joke. Bucky _knew_ that. The logical part of his brain understood that no harm had been meant. But there was a sudden hitch to his breathing and his cybernetic hand tightened just a little, and there was a flare of anger and then Mo's hand was on his knee under the table, giving a comforting squeeze, and she cut in smoothly:

"_Or_," she said, "you could befriend the multi-billionaire sitting just over there. Have you talked to him yet?"

"I haven't," said the man, placing his napkin down and standing. He thanked them, said it was nice meeting them, and moved onto the next table just like that.

Before Bucky could open his mouth to thank her, another soldier, the one sitting on her other side, cut in. His name card said Albert Wallace, and Bucky glared at him reproachfully. Albert Wallace was blind in one eye, deaf on the same side. He was asking Mo about her time with Tony and she answered the questions kindly, joking around, laughing.

"I'm sorry about your friends," Wallace said. "Really. I know what it's like."

"I'm sorry," Mo said earnestly.

"We all know loss," said another, Brightman. The other two soldiers at their table, Cortez and Black, were nodding along. Black waved his stump of an arm in the air as an indication.

"It's a shame," Wallace said, shaking his head. "What happened to you. You were such a pretty girl—it's a real shame."

There was a beat of silence as his words really settled in. Bucky watched as Mo's face stilled, her eyes widening fractionally, her lips parting a little. She swallowed and looked down for just a moment, at her hands, and Bucky watched her eyes trace over the scars on her right hand, watched her lift that hand up, just slightly, casually, impulsively, to touch the scar that had taken her eye. Wallace's eyes widened as he realized what he had said.

"I—I mean—shit, I didn't mean _that_, it came out wrong—"

"I'm used to it," she started, but Bucky cut her off.

"Yeah," Bucky said, "I'm sure you were very handsome, too, you know, _before_. Or maybe not."

This earned a laugh from the other soldiers and from Wallace, too, and like that, the tension had evaporated and the conversation went on. But as Bucky watched, throughout the conversation, she carefully rearranged her hair, moving it so that it covered the scars on her face, hiding them as best she could from view.

He was furious at their tactlessness. She'd never said it aloud, but he'd watched her enough while they'd lived together to know that her scars were a tender, sensitive spot. When the first opportunity arose, Bucky stood, giving her one of those looks. He didn't care that it was abrupt; he suddenly wasn't a fan of subtlety. The conversation had died down, anyway, the soldiers talking amongst themselves. By this point, everyone was done eating. Music was playing and people had taken to lounging, adjusting their chairs, suddenly less formal. Mo looked up at him, confused, her eyes hard. He nodded in the direction of the bar, and she narrowed her eyes, and he widened his, giving her a _look_, and she rolled her eyes and stood. He placed a hand at her elbow and guided her through the groups of men until they were clear, but not so far away as to draw attention.

"What do you want?"

"Hello to you, too, doll," he said blandly.

She suddenly looked tired, slouching a little. A slight pout came over her lips. "Seriously," she said. "What do you want?"

He scratched the back of his neck, leaving his hand there, and sighed. "You alright?"

"Yeah," she said quizzically.

"I mean what that moron said," Bucky went on. She waved him off.

"Oh, that. I'm used to it. Happens all the time. _'Oh, you were so pretty!'_ Trust me, I get it a lot."

"But you're upset."

"I'm _not_ upset," she insisted. "But if you don't shut up and leave me alone, I will be."

"Your lips—"

"I swear to god, Barnes, leave my lips alone." She had been chewing on them as soon as he'd made the comment.

They stared at each other for a minute before he went on. "You changed your hair to cover your scars," he said, and she huffed, fixing it the other way.

"There," she snapped. "Happy?"

"That's more like it," he said, chucking her under the chin with a finger; her upper lip twitched up in a snarl and he smirked. "Thank you, by the way," he added. "I know ya ain't my biggest fan anymore, but I appreciate what you did."

She said nothing, but the look in her eyes told him she knew what he was referring to: casually distracting the soldier from Bucky's arm after the Hydra comment, sending him off to meet Tony. It meant a lot; it meant that she still cared, on some level; it meant that she didn't hate him, at least not enough to leave him to the wolves.

There was a small crowd growing off to the right, and Mo shouldered past him to join it.

"For the record," he called as she went, "I think you look lovely tonight." She ignored him. He sighed and watched her go, hands in his pockets, and realized the crowd was growing around Steve. Immediately apprehensive, he set his shoulders and headed over.

* * *

While Steve appreciated their kindness and support, he was growing tired, down. He wasn't deserving of the praise, the warmth, the excitement, and it was wearing him down. He had just finished shaking hands with a retired general who had offered him an uncomfortable amount of praise, and there was a lull in the crowd for a few minutes when Olivia appeared at his elbow.

"How's it goin', Cap?" she asked, her large brown eyes looking up at him, a small smile on her lips. But there was something in her eyes, a sort of apprehension, and he realized that he made her nervous, and not because he was the great Captain America, but because he hadn't exactly been all that kind to her. She looked like she was waiting for a snide comeback.

He considered for a moment. "Not as bad as I'd anticipated," he said, hands behind his back, military stance. He looked around the room, and then back at her. He raised his eyebrows at her. She cleared her throat.

She gave a little sigh. "Some of the soldiers are asking to take pictures with you."

"For the newspapers?"

"No, for themselves," she said. "Personal. I think it'd be good for your image."

Steve sighed, then gave a curt nod and Olivia wisped away. He watched her go for a moment, wondering about her. She was always just _there_, it seemed, hovering just out of eyesight, coming and going but never lingering. Within moments she was back with a soldier, a young man who approached him shyly. Steve saluted him and he returned the gesture and, stammering, asked for a picture. Steve allowed it and Olivia took the picture.

"You could try smiling," Olivia suggested, handing the soldier his phone back.

"Not really in the smiling mood," Steve said, ducking his head as another soldier approached.

"Try," she said firmly, and before long people were lining up and Steve was deeply uncomfortable. He found himself wanting to bolt, and just when he felt like he was about to lose it Olivia appeared again, glass of ice water in her hand. She handed it to him.

"You look like you're in pain," she said dryly, then turned to the waiting soldiers. "Give us a moment, please," she called, and took his arm and led him a few steps away. "What's wrong?" she asked lowly.

"Nothing," he said.

"Cut the crap, Rogers," she said. "There's a line of people out there who really, genuinely admire you. This picture—to some of them, it'll be a memory they'll always look back on. _Captain America_. Why are you struggling with that?"

They stared each other down for a few moments. He was feeling hot, but clammy; sweat slid down his back. He shifted his weight and then ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not—" he faltered and blew out an irritated breath, then turned and motioned at the crowd. "I'm not who they all think I am. I'm just—"

Olivia seemed to study him for a moment, the pieces falling into place. She nodded slowly. "I can call it off," she said to his surprise. "Just say the word."

He turned and looked back at the soldiers, then shook his head. "I'll do it," he said. "It's the least I can do."

Olivia nodded. "Drink your water," she ordered, guiding him back. Tony and Sam had joined in now, and the sight of Sam made Steve feel immediately more relaxed. Scanning the room, he found Mo and Bucky talking near the bar, which was good, he thought. They needed to talk.

He went back to the pictures. Sam and Tony were taking goofy pictures with the soldiers, having fun. Olivia rolled her eyes and urged him to loosen up, but he was just as uncomfortable with this as he had been in the 40s, dressed in his uniform, posing for pictures with screaming babies.

It wasn't until one man approached him that he saw what Olivia had meant.

"Captain," said the man, and he pulled something out of his coat pocket, unfolding it hastily. It was an old Captain America comic book. "I was wondering—I promised my son—do you think you could sign this for him?" Steve took the comic book. "You're his favorite, see," the man explained.

"His favorite?" Steve echoed, perplexed.

"Avenger," the man said. "He just loves you, he loves your story. He's been sick, recently, and it has its ups and downs but he made me promise that I'd get his comic signed for him. He just loves the idea of the little guy rising up, you know?"

Steve's throat tightened. He was nodding. "Yeah," he said. "Sure, sure. What's his name?"

"Austin," said the man, smiling. Olivia produced a pen, handing it to him smoothly as the man spoke. "Thank you so much. He's going to be so excited."

Beside them, Mo and Bucky had joined in. Mo was posing with a couple of female soldiers. They were laughing, flexing for the camera.

"Can I see your phone?" Olivia asked the soldier, and he handed it to her. She looked at Steve, who was still a little shaken, and he posed with the man as she snapped their picture.

"Thank you," the man said, looking moved. "Thank you."

Olivia stepped up to Steve then. He swallowed, thrown, and she smiled at him, just a little, and he caught her eye and she winked. "Told you so," she said.

**AN: A little progress here. I thought it'd be a nice touch that Mo and Bucky still have that silent communication thing going on… and how do you feel about Olivia and the way she handled Steve? It wasn't much, but for once they weren't going at each other. Their relationship will be exciting to explore. Let me know what you think! We'll definitely be getting deeper into Steve's problems in upcoming chapters.**


	5. Chapter 5

The air was chillier up this high. She shivered a little, crossing her arms and leaning out over the balcony, trying to rub out the gooseflesh that stood out on her arms. The wind whipped her hair around her face, tearing it out of its gently curled style, but she didn't mind. The night was over. Everyone was going home. Olivia was on a lower level of the tower, talking to the boys, and Mo had excused herself. After being packed in such a crowded room for so long, putting on a happy face, faking her way through the night, she was exhausted, her nerves frayed.

This was her favorite spot; a balcony/patio seemingly a million stories up. Looking out, she felt that she could see everything. She came out here from time to time, usually in the middle of the night when a nightmare woke her. The cold didn't really bother her much; she craved the cold, after all those too-hot days and nights in Afghanistan. After burning. She'd never grow tired of the cold.

She stretched her right hand out, the one with the burns, and examined it, flexing her fingers. For years she'd wished the burns away. She'd been ashamed of them, had struggled with the fact that she was disfigured. The stares, the murmurs as she passed people in the store, on campus, on the streets. For a long time she'd taken to covering up in sweatshirts, her then-wild, curly hair hiding the scars on her face. She hadn't really come out of it until a year ago, when she'd moved in with Sam, Steve, and Bucky. Only when she'd faced someone who had been worse off than she was had she decided to stop hiding herself, for his benefit more than hers, and since then she hadn't bothered to hide anymore.

She blew out a breath, pushing her wind-whipped hair out of her face. The biting wind stung her bare legs, tossed the skirt of her dress around. It was a moment before she realized she wasn't alone, and she turned her head quickly, into the wind, and shoved her hair out of her face to look at the person.

"Hey, girl," he said, and she swallowed and looked away, back down at the ground, so far below. She didn't say anything. He came right up next to her, leaned against the rail beside her, casually. "What're you doing out here?"

"I wanted to be alone," she said icily. Sam sighed and turned so that he leaned his back against the barrier, crossing his arms and looking at her.

"Can we talk?"

"Do I have a choice?"

He shrugged. "You don't have to," he said. "You don't gotta do anything you don't want to do, Mo."

She hesitated, then said: "What do you want, Sam?"

"I just wanted to talk to you," he said. "I miss you, is all." She snorted. "Look," he went on, "I'm sorry. I really am. I shouldn't have just disappeared like that. I get that you're mad—"

"I'm not even mad, Sam," she rasped, finally looking at him. "I'm just—disappointed. You know? I mean, from them, maybe, but _you_? I wouldn't have expected this from you."

"I was just trying to keep you safe, baby," he said gently, and she shook her head.

"I don't need you to protect me," she urged. "I can handle myself."

"I know you can," he said, running a hand over his face. "I know it, I really do. But the threats we were getting—and after what went down at the apartment—the three of us sat down, almost the second you left, and we had a talk, and we decided right then that we couldn't bring you into this anymore. We had to let you go."

She stared at him, her throat suddenly tight.

"Then the trial came," Sam said, "and you kept calling. I wanted to answer—we _all_ did, Mo. You think it was easy for us to just dump you like that? After everything? I mean Bucky, man—Bucky was attached to you. You know how it is. But we all wanted the best thing for you, and when the death threats started coming in, we knew we couldn't add anyone else to their list."

"You could have told me that," she said. "I'd have understood. But to just disappear? Do you know how that made me _feel?_"

"Pretty shitty, I'd guess," he muttered, and she nodded.

"Yeah," she said. "Like once I'd given y'all everything I had, you didn't have any use for me anymore—"

"You know it's not like that—"

"But that's how it _felt_," she said, her voice breaking. "It was hard for me, too, Sam, to sit there and watch the trial and wonder—God only knows what that did to him."

"It did a number," Sam admitted. "He got bad again, for a while. That's when I almost cracked and called you up—"

"Because you needed me for something," Mo said softly.

"Shit, Mo," Sam said. "C'mon."

"Whatever," she said, "just finish your story."

"It's true," Sam said suddenly. "You know? We did need you. You had this way with him no one else did. He didn't open up to us the same way. So, yeah, we needed you and I almost called you then, and he _broke my phone_." At this, Sam laughed. "He got all stressed out, slipped up, and I was about to call you and he took my phone and crushed it in his hand. Like nothing."

Mo grinned a little.

"Point is," he said, leaning his shoulder against hers, "it's not like we just forgot about you. And yeah, maybe it was stupid, and looking back it could have been handled better, but we had a lot going on. We were overwhelmed. You were going to school, and together we decided we had to let you go, live your own life, make something of yourself. If you'd had put your name on that trial, your career would have been shot before it could even begin. You don't need to be tied to us, girl. We'd only bring you down."

"And here I am," Mo said.

"Here you are," Sam agreed. "Steve was _pissed_. I thought he was going to flatten Olivia."

"He needs to leave her alone," Mo said defensively. "What's his deal, anyway?"

"He feels like she's going behind his back," Sam explained. "She knew he didn't want you to be part of this, and she called you up anyway. Nothing personal, like I said, he just doesn't want you getting hurt for us. You know how he is."

She thought back to the mission where Sam had been caught and tortured. She remembered what Steve had said, what he had felt, that it was his fault. It hit her, suddenly, that she _did_ understand. In his eyes, if anything happened, it would be yet another friend who was hurt because of him. She shook her head.

"He can't protect everyone," she murmured.

"Yeah, try telling him that," Sam said with a roll of his eyes. "Talk about a hero complex."

"How is he?"

"Steve? He's—y'know, he's Steve. He's got his issues. Olivia makes him crazy. He says he doesn't trust her, particularly because she brought you into it. He thinks she's just using you—and all of us—to make her career, which may be true. I don't know her that well. But, y'know, he's struggling. Bucky wasn't the only one they dragged over the coals for that trial. People hate him now."

"I just want to help, Sam," Mo said.

"I know," he said. "He's just—he's nervous about it all."

Mo shook her head. She rubbed her arms and Sam gave her his jacket, which she accepted. She licked her lips, stared out at the city.

"And Bucky?" she finally asked. "How's he doing?"

"Better," Sam said. "He had his problems—still does, you know it doesn't just magically get better. And the trial—I'm sorry, Mo, but I'm glad you weren't around for that. It tore them both apart, having to relive everything Bucky went through. Some of the shit they did to him—" Sam shuddered. "He's gotten better since then. But still a little edgy, a little anxious."

"Yeah," Mo nodded. "He came around tonight."

"I noticed," Sam said. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," she said, "one guy just had his head in his ass and made a stupid comment. Didn't mean anything by it, but I could see it in his eyes—it took him aback, a little. But it was okay."

There was silence. Finally, Sam spoke again: "I hope you don't think we were using you, Mo," he said, and his voice was earnest. "You did more for that kid than anyone else could've. And we owe you so much for that. We'd never want to hurt you or make you feel used."

Mo shrugged one shoulder, swallowing, sucking on her lower lip and avoiding his gaze. She took a shaky breath. "Still," she said, "just a text would've been nice, at least."

"I know," Sam said, "I know. I'm sorry. I just don't—I don't like this. I don't like you being mad at me."

"I told you I'm not—"

"Shh. Don't interrupt my apology." She rolled her eyes at him. "Honestly, though, Mo, I've missed you. And I'm happy that you're part of this with us. We all are. Even Steve. He's just Steve, you know. We've all missed you—I've missed you most, of course, but… you're my friend, kid, and I don't want to lose you over this. I miss you."

Mo put her face in her hands, still leaning over the balcony, her throat tight, her eyes damp. After a moment of consideration, she turned to him and stepped up to him, wrapping her arms around him. He clutched her for a moment, resting his chin on top of her head.

"We okay?" he asked.

"The last year isn't just gonna go away," she murmured into his shoulder, "but I—I've missed you, too, Sam. Like a lot. I don't want to fight with you."

"I'll make it up to you," he offered, and she laughed as he kissed the top of her head.

"Aw," came a sharp voice from the doorway that led up to their balcony. "This is wonderful! Are we friends again?"

Mo groaned and stepped away from Sam. Tony came out onto the balcony and pulled up a chair, setting a bunch of bottles on the table. Bucky, Steve, and even Olivia had come up with him, and Mo gave them a look.

"It's the _after-_after party," Tony explained, nodding at the bottles and glasses. "These two," he motioned at Steve and Bucky, "can't get drunk, apparently. We'll see about that. Barnes's idea—don't look at me. Miss Tate even agreed to stick around."

Bucky was smirking at Steve, who was grinning slightly, competitively. Olivia stepped up to Mo.

"See what I mean?" she muttered, nodding at Steve and Bucky. "Put those two together…"

Mo laughed. Bucky looked at her and then squared his shoulders, taking a seat across from Steve.

"Shots, my friend," he said to Tony.

"Aye, aye," Tony said, pouring a few shots.

"Just like the old days, bud," Bucky said, clinking his shot glass against Steve's.

"I want in on this," Sam said, sitting beside Steve and snatching up a shot.

"Bad idea," Bucky said.

"What the hell," Tony said, pouring himself a shot. "We don't have anything big planned tomorrow, do we, Miss Tate?"

"No, Mr. Stark, we do not."

"Wonderful."

They downed their shots, grimacing. Bucky motioned for Tony to hurry with another, and he and Steve downed them.

"Keep 'em coming, Stark," Bucky said.

"Ladies?" Sam said, offering them each a shot. Mo and Olivia exchanged a glance and Mo shrugged.

"Why not?" She grabbed them and handed one to Olivia. "You're not working," Mo reminded her, and they downed them together.

* * *

Mo and Olivia had stopped drinking after only a couple of shots; someone would have to take care of the boys, they agreed, because this was clearly getting out of hand rather quickly, and so they settled for a warm buzz, laughing as Sam and Tony tapped out of the competition and Bucky and Steve went at it. Mo lost track of how many shots they did, but it was upwards of thirty-two, and then Steve was throwing up—not drunk, but throwing up. Bucky laughed, pumping an arm triumphantly, thumping his friend on the back.

"I hate you," Steve muttered.

"Just like old times," Bucky laughed.

"Oh, boy," Olivia murmured, and Mo was grinning, Tony was in hysterics, and Sam was groaning and questioning his life decisions.

It was nice, Mo thought, being with them like this. Bucky was clearly enjoying himself, a wide smile on his face, laughing as he rubbed Steve's back. It was nice to see them acting normal. She suspected that, after all the tension, they needed this.

After a while Bucky stood and approached Mo, who was sitting alone; Olivia had vacated her chair and was talking to Tony, who was drunk. Bucky sauntered over, plopping himself down casually beside her, and she looked at him.

"Are you drunk?" she asked after a moment.

"Nah," he said. "I mean, I feel _somethin'_—but not drunk. Could be because I'm sitting next to a pretty lady, though." He winked.

"Oh, please," she said, rolling her eyes, and he laughed a warm, rich, contagious laugh, and she found herself smiling too. She still felt warm, fuzzy, and snuggled into Sam's coat. Bucky was quiet for a while, grinning to himself, and she saw that his eyes were trained on Steve.

"Used to take a lot less to get him drunk," Bucky said. "He was so damned small."

Mo smiled a little. "You seem happy," she said.

He shrugged one shoulder. "I'm doin' well enough," he said, then turned to look at her a little, his blue eyes earnest. "Been missin' you, though."

"Yeah," she sighed, hesitant. "I guess I've missed you, too. A little."

He ducked his head, biting his bottom lip to hide his smile. "I'm sorry," he went on, "for not calling, or writing, or anything. I had the best intentions."

"I know you did."

"D'you think you can find it in your heart to forgive me?"

She watched him for a moment. He'd raised his eyebrows, tilted his head to one side, and it was possibly the most heart-melting look she'd ever seen him wear. She groaned. The alcohol in her system had her feeling gentler, kinder than she'd care to admit.

"How can I deny that face?" she finally said, and he smiled a big, genuine smile.

"I'll make it up to ya," he offered.

"You'd better. You've got some groveling to do."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," he said, smirking.

"Stop that," she said.

"Stop what?" he asked innocently.

"That stupid smirk."

"That's just my face," he said, shaking his head, but then his face sobered. His old-timey Brooklyn accent was thick, and she wondered if the alcohol had brought it out. She bit her lip. "Look," he said, "jokes aside—I want you to know that I know it musta been hard on you, watching the trial and all. I thought about you the whole time—I don't want ya thinkin' I just forgot. Everything we been through together—I couldn't just do that to you. I couldn't drag ya through it with us. I really have missed you."

"I know," she said softly, leaning into him. He tentatively placed an arm around her shoulders and she allowed it, leaning into him, breathing him in. This, she thought, was something she'd thought she'd never feel again. And it would take time, she knew, before things were back to normal, but it was a start.

**AN: The chapter of apologies… I wanted to let you all know that I'm open to requests! Whether its Bucky/Mo, Steve/Olivia, Mo/Olivia, or anyone else, let me know what you want to read and I'd be more than happy to include it! I know there's a super fun party chapter coming up that I want to write, a long with some drama! But if you guys want something, let me know!**

**Remember to review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Edited: originally had that Steve spoke only English. Had to change it to English/French.**

Steve was ashamed to admit he didn't start to see Olivia Tate in a new light until the day she literally threw herself in harm's way for him. She'd had a busy day planned for him; an interview in the morning with a radio station, lunch, and then a photoshoot/interview just after, where he'd be meeting up with the others. They'd just finished the radio interview—Olivia had gone over all the questions and rehearsed his answers with him, and she hovered just outside the room, watching him like a hawk, giving him an encouraging nod whenever he became uncomfortable.

With that out of the way, she'd offered to take him to a quick lunch in between appointments. He'd agreed, figuring they were spending the day together anyway, and they stopped in at a small, genuine Italian restaurant, Steve with a ball cap low over his eyes. She sat across from him, her silvery hair swept up into an elegant bun, her large glasses framing her eyes, a couple of wisps of hair having escaped the sleek style. She wore, as usual, pale shades of clothing, which he thought was dangerous for eating at an Italian joint, but he didn't mention it.

They were outdoors, their table and other guests' tables separated from the public by a low gate. He scanned the passing faces and the people seated around them, always watchful, aware of Olivia's eyes on him. He finally blinked and looked at her, and found her with a breadstick in her hand, watching him carefully.

"What?" he finally asked as she chewed slowly.

"Do you ever relax?"

"Do _you_?" he countered. The thing about Olivia was that she was always _going_—she was in a perpetual state of being _on her way_ somewhere.

"Touché," she said, inclining her head a little, popping another piece of breadstick into her mouth. "Eat," she said, nudging the basket of bread toward him. "It's going to be a long day."

The waiter came by to take their orders, and when Steve stumbled over the Italian, Olivia cut him off and ordered their food with an impeccable Italian accent. The waiter thanked her, still speaking Italian.

"Well," Steve said. "Color me surprised. I didn't know you spoke Italian."

"_C'è molto che non lo so, Capitano,_" she said, smirking a little, and he shook his head, grinning. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Captain," she translated, and he realized that it was true. He knew nothing about the plucky publicist.

"So tell me," he said, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward slightly. She shook her head.

"I don't like to get personal with my clients," she said.

"See," he replied, "but that's how trust works. You share a little, I share a little…"

She rolled her eyes, adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose with one finger. She seemed to consider before she spoke again. "_Ich spreche auch Deutsch,"_ she said, raising a finger and ticking it off, "_Un poco de español, y un tout petit peu de françias."_

"Five languages," Steve said. He recognized them: German, Spanish, and French, on top of Italian and English. "Alright," he said, _"now_ color me surprised. And impressed."

She shrugged. "I traveled a lot when I was a kid. Sucked it up like a sponge. Plus my parents were anthropologists and wanted me to be fluent in a lot of languages. Not that big of a deal."

"Five languages. Right," Steve said dryly, and she smiled, just a little, half of her mouth quirking up. She tilted her head down just slightly, conveying just a tad of shyness, of humility in the way her shoulders sloped, and then it clicked:

"Everything about you is an act, isn't it? The way you speak; the way you move; what you wear." She didn't deny it. "You're acting."

"I know how to manipulate people," she said. "I have to, in this industry."

"You don't have to—"

"You don't know what you're talking about," she said coolly. "You'd do well to learn a thing or two from me, Captain. You have to know how to make people like you."

"I don't care much what other people think of me," he said, "as long as I know I've done the right thing."

"See," she said slowly, leaning toward him, "that's your problem. You don't care. We've all been told this lie, our whole lives—it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. And that's not true. It's the _only_ thing that matters. And when people like you can't figure that out, well, it gives people like me a job." He thought for a moment. She tucked a silvery strand of hair behind one ear and looked up at him, licking her lips slowly, thoughtfully. Then she smiled, showing her perfectly white teeth a little, an expression that was oddly predatory. "You don't trust me at all, do you?"

He was taken aback slightly, but shook his head. "I don't."

"Why not?"

"Because of what you just said," he replied. "You're a manipulator. You're an act. I don't know the first thing about you. All you say is for me to trust you, and from my experience blind trust doesn't work out too well."

"You need me, though," she pointed out. "Like it or not. Tired of getting spit on in the street yet?"

He flipped his fork around in his fingers, considering. Part of him understood what she was saying; his image needed work, everyone could see it. But the stubborn part of him wanted to brush her off, because who cared what they thought? But she was right. He needed to care, and that was why he—and it irked him to admit it, even to himself—needed her.

He hadn't been spit on, not literally, not yet, at least. But he'd had drinks thrown at him. Trash. He'd been cornered, taunted, laughed at. It was something he'd grown used to, back when he had been small; he had a thick skin. But his temper was short lately, and the amount of restraint it took _not_ to pummel people sometimes was exhausting.

"Alright," he finally conceded. The waiter came and dropped off their food. She speared a noodle and tilted her head to one side, chewing slowly. "So then who's the _real_ Olivia Tate?"

She smirked. "You haven't met her yet," she allowed, and he nodded thoughtfully.

"What's she like?" he tried, and Olivia just shook her head. "So this," he said, motioning to her general form, "it's all just an act?" She didn't betray anything. "Is there _anything_ about you that's real?"

She seemed to consider for a moment, then pulled her glasses off and handed them to him. She nodded and he peered through them. "I really can't see," she said, and he laughed. She truly did have bad vision. "I could wear contacts," she mused, "but it's been proven that people perceive you differently when you wear glasses. You're seen as more intelligent, generally. Sexier, sometimes."

"I see," he said, handing them back, and she slid them on with a wink. "So it's all about appearances with you."

"It's all about appearances with _everyone_," she said, rolling her eyes slightly. "Appearance is everything."

A little bit more of his understanding of her fell into place. _Appearance is everything_. It was why she never cracked, why everything about her, every word, every movement, seemed so calculated, why she seemed so in control, why she was always immaculate and put together. It was the face she put on, the role she played around him and everyone else, and his curiosity was piqued—who was she when she _wasn't_ putting on a show for the world?

"I'm going to figure you out," he said after a while of eating in silence—a thoughtful silence, not awkward. She looked up at him, nipping a piece of pasta. The couple at the table next to them had begun to stare. He tilted his face away from them, but they were murmuring.

"Good luck, Captain," she said lightly. She didn't seem worried. "Tell you what. When you let me inside that pretty head of yours, I'll let you in mine." He stiffened. She grinned a sly smile. "Thought so."

When the check came, he reached for his wallet, but Olivia just waved him away and handed the waiter her credit card before he could even get his wallet open. He had no idea how much the bill had been. He cut her a look and she folded her hands, still with that sly smile.

"Chivalrous," she observed, like she was trying to figure him out.

"Independent," he shot back, and she gave a short nod, smiling and thanking the waiter when he returned. She went to scribble down the tip, but his arm shot across the table and snatched it from her. She arched an eyebrow at him, looking mildly annoyed, as he pulled out a twenty and tucked it away in the booklet for the waiter.

"I got the tip," he said, standing abruptly, dropping the booklet on the table. She glared, only a little, and opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted as the couple at the next table stood. The woman had a glass of wine in her hand, and their eyes were trained on Steve.

Olivia did something strange, then. She crossed her arms and took a step in front of Steve, blocking some of his body. Her voice was like ice when she spoke: "Can I help you?"

"Olivia," Steve said lowly. _Speaking of being spit on,_ he thought. A couple of other people had turned around.

"Nice disguise," the woman said.

"Do we know you?" Olivia asked.

"Everyone knows _him_," she spit, and the man behind her folded his arms. "God damned _traitor_."

"Right," Olivia said slowly, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Look lady, we got somewhere to be, so if you could just—"

Olivia attempted to move past her, but she shoved Olivia's shoulder.

"Hey," Steve barked, but Olivia was suddenly very close to the woman and her voice was deadly.

"Do not," she breathed, "touch me again." Although the woman was taller than Olivia, she actually took a step back, looking alarmed. "Now I suggest you and your dead ends and hideous dye-job _get out of my way_."

The woman looked insulted. Her lip curled. "Who do you think you are?"

"I think I'm about to knock you on your ass," Olivia spit. "C'mon, Steve." It was the first time she'd called him "Steve", but Captain didn't seem appropriate. Olivia pushed past her and Steve, nearly floored by the interaction and fighting back a smile, headed after her.

"The great Captain America," the woman said. "Letting a woman fight his battles for him."

"Well, I'd say she'd capable," Steve said, and Olivia had circled back and was standing beside him. Suddenly, the woman moved, and Olivia was moving, too, her hand shooting out, but it was too late; the woman had thrown her drink at Steve. A bit of the red wine sprayed him in the face, but it didn't take him long to realize that Olivia had gotten the worst of it.

She stood still for a moment, her mouth open in shock as the red dripped from her nose, onto her collar and her chest. Her pale gray blouse was stained with bright red; it dripped from her eyelashes, in spite of the glasses. She sucked in a breath but ended up gasping sharply as Steve caught her around the waist and dragged her away.

* * *

In the back of one of Tony's cars, Olivia was going through her bag, her jaw clenched.

"This shirt," she said waspishly, "two hundred dollars."

"I'm sorry, Olivia," he was saying, but she didn't seem to hear him.

"God, I hope there aren't any headlines tomorrow," she was muttering, and Steve groaned and grimaced. "What?"

"A man had his phone out…"

She groaned and pulled another shirt out of her bag. She glanced at Steve and did a double-take, her eyes narrowing. "Why are you smirking?" Steve ran a hand over his mouth, trying to smooth it out, but he couldn't help it.

"You know," he said, "for someone who's always on my ass about keeping my cool—"

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. "Don't you preach at me, Rogers."

He raised his hands. "Wasn't gonna."

He couldn't contain the smirk. At the furious look on her face, coupled with the wine stains and the subtle smudge to her makeup, he had to put his head down and just laugh. She huffed and snapped at him to look away, and before he knew it she was unbuttoning her blouse. As he tried to quiet the laughter, she bundled up the damp blouse and tossed it at his head.

"Whoa, hey!" he said, snatching the blouse off his head. "This feels expensive," he mused, and her lip curled and he was laughing again, apologizing but not really meaning it. She tugged the new shirt on and when he looked at her again, he found that her face had softened a little.

"So," she said, crossing her legs and looking at him. "You _can_ relax."

"At your expense?" he smirked, "Yes. Nice reflexes, though.

"Wasn't the first time someone's thrown a drink at me," she said dryly, letting her hair down and running her hands through it before carefully pinning it up again. "Won't be the last."

"I can't imagine why," Steve said innocently, and she cut him a look.

"So suddenly you've got a personality, and it turns out you're a smart ass."

Steve shrugged one shoulder, crooked half-smile in place. He ran a hand through his hair, watching Olivia as she balanced a hand-mirror on her knees and touched up her hair and makeup, wiped off her glasses and smoothed her blouse.

"You just happened to have an extra shirt?" he questioned.

"One thing you'll learn about me, Captain Rogers," she said, putting her mirror back in her purse after one final check-up, "is that I'm always prepared. And, like I said, this isn't the first time it's happened."

"It's a shame about the stain, though," Steve said after a moment. "If you want, I'll give you the money to replace it, since it's my fault and all."

She was watching him now, eyes steady. "No," she said, "that won't be necessary."

The car slowed and Steve swore they hadn't even come to a complete stop before Olivia was opening the door.

"Come on," she said, "we're late."

* * *

She was right. Bucky and Sam were already waiting for them. Olivia had fluttered off to talk to the photographers after abandoning Steve, leaving him to the wolves, so to speak. He was sat in a chair while people hovered over him, working on his face, his hair, his outfit. He could hear Sam, who was laughing and clearly enjoying himself, and then caught sight of his friend strutting around like a peacock. He could also hear Bucky, who sounded cocky but a little uncertain. By the time they were finished, he was lined up beside Bucky and Sam, and Olivia was pacing in front of them, inspecting them, making sure they were photo-ready.

"Are we wearing makeup?" Bucky muttered.

"You look pretty, Buck," Steve said.

"Do I look pretty?" Sam asked, pouting.

"Yeah, sure, you're beautiful," Bucky said off-handedly, earning a chuckle from Sam and Steve.

Olivia pointed at Steve suddenly. "Look at those cheekbones," she said. "Do you see them? He's gorgeous; why have we not highlighted those cheekbones?" Steve made a move to scratch his head awkwardly, but Olivia's hand shot out and snatched his wrist. "Don't you _dare_ screw up that hair, Rogers. Also, people, look at his eyelashes, _come on_, work with me here, I swear to god…"

Suddenly people were dusting his face with powder. When they stepped away, she looked him up and down slowly, nodding, a slow smile spreading over her face.

Then she stepped up to Sam. She sighed. "Again, the cheekbones." She sounded exasperated. Then she stepped up to Bucky and smiled. "Look at him," she sighed, "he's beautiful. Put him in the blue, though, I mean look at those eyes. Stunning. They're gonna melt people's hearts."

When the touch-ups had been made, Olivia was smiling widely.

"I feel like a piece of meat," Bucky grumbled.

"You said it, bud," Steve muttered.

And then it was time for the photos. They started with Sam, who was a natural. Olivia encouraged them all to talk and goof around.

"Wilson, you are an angel," she said. "Captain Rogers, you're up."

Steve stepped up, completely surrounded by white screens and gigantic cameras. He was suddenly very, very uncomfortable. The photographer got right in his face; he wanted a headshot, he said, to place up against a picture of Steve from the 40s.

"Just look into the camera," he instructed. "No—not, like that, just—no—Give me the _look. _The Captain America look—No."

"Smile," Bucky tried sarcastically.

This went on for a while, and Steve was lost and growing irritated. Finally, Olivia interrupted.

"Wait, wait, wait," she said. "Stop. Rogers. Honey. What's wrong?" She was standing in front of him now. She lowered her voice. The photographer was still in his face. "You camera shy?" Steve said nothing.

"Look," Olivia urged, "I know it's weird. Just pretend he's not there, okay?"

Steve gave her a look. "Because he's so easy to forget."

_FLASH_.

"There we go," said the photographer.

"See?" Olivia smirked. "You're overthinking it. You're beautiful. The camera loves you."

Steve lowered his eyes, grinning a little, shaking his head. He reached around to scratch the back of his neck.

_FLASH._

"Beautiful," the photographer murmured.

Olivia smiled widely.

* * *

"Wait—you want me to do _what_?"

It was Bucky's turn. The photographer had just made an odd request, one he hadn't made of the others. "Be sexy," he said, "you know, bite your lip, make eyes at the camera—"

"No," Olivia snapped. "We are _not_ sexualizing my clients."

"Sex sells, Miss Tate," the photographer drawled. "And this one? He's—"

"I said no," Olivia snapped. "They're not sex symbols. We discussed this."

"I don't think—"

"Let's get one thing straight," Olivia said, her voice taking on that frosty, frankly _frightening_ tone again. "You're not being paid to _think_. In fact, you're paying _me_ for this opportunity. I've got hundreds of other magazines on my ass for pictures of these three, and I chose yours. Don't make me change my mind."

She'd stepped right up to the photographer, who immediately backed off, grumbling. "Fine," he snapped. "Is the _bad boy_ look acceptable?"

"We can work with that. Barnes?"

"Sure," Bucky muttered.

"If you don't want to," Olivia said, "just say the word."

He and Steve exchanged a glance. "It's fine," Bucky said.

"A little sexy is okay," Olivia said, turning to Bucky. "I feel like it comes naturally to you, and that's okay—but that's _not what we're going for_." She'd spit the last part at the photographer and then gripped Bucky's arms, giving him a little squeeze. "Try the puppy dog look—you know exactly the one I'm talking about, I've seen you use it on Miss Fox. I'm here for you guys," she said lowly. "I'm looking out for you. I'm not going to let them diminish you to just a couple of pretty faces, alright? You've got a bigger story to tell."

Bucky nodded and he tried to get through the rest of it. He really did try. But it wore on his nerves after a while, and the bright, sudden flashes the cameras gave off were intense. He'd made it through most of the group shots before he started to grow anxious, anticipating the flash, flinching whenever it went off, successfully ruining the shots. It wasn't long before the others put it together and noticed, and Olivia mercifully called off the photographer. Bucky sat on a prop bench, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, grounding himself the way Mo had taught him.

"They're just cameras," he told himself. "Just cameras."

He was aware of someone's hand on his back, someone calling him _Buck_, and he gritted his teeth and groaned. There was a stabbing pain in his head and he pressed his palms to his eyes. He heard Sam's voice, distantly, muttering the word _flashback_, and then Olivia's voice, high and clear:

"We're done here. Everybody out."

**AN: So, I love the amounts of Olivia we get in this chapter! Next one will be more Mo/Bucky centered… also, if you have any scene requests (ex: dancing, a party, a specific moment between anyone, etc.) feel free to leave them in a review and I'll get to them! I'm curious about your thoughts on Olivia, as always!**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: This chapter was so much fun. Dancing, drinking, and drunkenness! Also some Mo/Bucky and some bickering.**

Bucky learned very quickly that Mo was perhaps the _worst_ driver in history. Sitting in the passenger seat beside her, his hands gripped the seats, his jaw clenched, tension etched into his muscles. He wasn't sure _why_ he was so tense—it wasn't like any accident they got into would actually do him and real harm, but he gritted his teeth as she slammed on the breaks, throwing them both forward.

Perhaps the worst part was that she was _laughing_. The brakes screeched, tossing her hair around, and she laughed, shoving it out of her face with one hand. He eyed her, wondering if she had gone insane.

"Sorry," she gasped. "I'm not used to driving with this leg. Touchy."

The car lurched forward. This was New York. There was _so much traffic_—

They screeched to a halt again and she was still laughing, and it took him a moment to realize that she was laughing _at him_.

"What?" he demanded. Her eyes watered.

"Your face—" she gasped.

"That's it," he said. He opened the passenger door and walked around to her side, yanking the door open. "_Out._"

"What?" her eyes were wide. Behind them, a car honked. He reached in and unbuckled her, lifting her up and over the center console and dropping her off in the passenger seat, taking control of the vehicle. She stared at him, her mouth open as he slammed the door and drove.

"You—that is _so rude!_" she cried, looking furious. "I can't believe you—"

"You know," he mused, glaring, "I've been through a lot, Moriah. A lot. I think it says a lot that I absolutely _cannot stand your driving._"

She stared at him, looking deeply offended, before she huffed and turned away from him, angling her body toward the door as he drove—much more smoothly than she had. He took a calming breath, trying to unwind. Maybe it was the lack of control of the situation—yes, he told himself, that was it. Mo refused to look at him, staring out the window, and once he calmed down he sighed.

"C'mon, sweet'eart," he said, "don't be mad."

"Shut up," she snapped. She turned up the radio. He glared and turned it down.

"I'm trying to talk to you," he said, and she turned it back up.

"I'm trying to _ignore_ you," she said coldly. _"Leave it alone_. I like this song."

"Fine," he snapped, staring straight ahead at the road. God, he hated New York. Hated it. Hated the traffic, hated the crowds—he cursed her for having convinced Tony to let them borrow a car and drive it themselves. Stupid idea. Mo was very pointedly ignoring him, with was just _peachy _. He'd convinced her to come out with him after the long day. His nerves were frayed as it was, and with her driving… no, he couldn't handle it. He wanted to relax.

He'd invited her because he knew he had a year's worth of silence to make up for. So, he'd decided to take her for dinner—which they'd accomplished—and now they would be meeting up with Sam and Steve for a night of "fun and catching up," as Sam had said brightly. Sam and Mo had decided on the place.

The night was off to a great start.

They drove in silence until Mo started singing along to the radio. Badly. He knew she was doing it on purpose, to get under his skin, because he'd heard her sing and he loved her voice. So _this_, whatever this was, was just to annoy him. He tried not to take the bait, his hands tightening on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. When he couldn't take it anymore, he changed the station but, of course, it turned out she knew that song too. Gritting his teeth, he tried again, and he could see her smirking out of the corner of her eye as, _of course_, she knew this song as well.

By this time she was full on facing him, dancing in her seat, singing _at him_. He knew she was trying to get to him. He knew it. He refused to take the bait. He ignored her. He tried his best to ignore her. She was driving him insane. He wasn't sure if he wanted to burst out laughing or drive the car into oncoming traffic. She must have liked his song, because she was getting really into it, so he changed the station. She finally shoved his hand away and put it back on the song, and before long she was fighting with his arm as he drove before he finally just shut the thing off.

"What is your problem?" she demanded. But there was a little smirk on her face and he glared at her as best he could, still fighting back that laugh.

"I just hate traffic," he finally snarled, clutching the wheel. "It makes me—You know, back in my day, I never had to—" he stopped immediately at the look on her face. Her eyes had gone wide, and she'd clapped her hands over her mouth.

"Oh, my god," she whispered. "You—Olivia was right. You're like an old man—"

"Shut up," he growled.

"You're just a grumpy old man," she said softly, but her voice shook with laughter. "Oh my god."

He gave her a dirty look; now _he_ was offended.

"Oh, come on, sweetheart," she said, "don't be like that."

"I know I'm old," he snapped, "you don't need to remind me of it, thank you."

"Geeze. _Someone's_ cranky." He took a deep, steadying breath. She laughed. "Make a right here."

"Where are we going, exactly?" He had no idea what the place she and Sam had decided on was, only that they'd looked suspiciously excited about it.

"You like dancing, right?"

"Yes…"

"Just trust me."

* * *

"Well, let's just hope you dance better than you drive," he said dryly. She'd brought him to a line-dancing bar.

"You're going to eat your words," she said. "This is modern dancing, dollface. None of that 1940s swing baloney."

He looked around. It was country themed, apparently, aggressively so, with a mechanical bull and hay on the floor and everything. He was fascinated, a little. Just a little—he wouldn't give her the joy of seeing just how fascinated he was by it. He'd never been in a place like this before. As he'd stopped to look around, Mo had disappeared, abandoning him. He found her at the bar, ordering two shots even though he still had yet to get _drunk ._

"I opened a tab in your name," she said with a smirk. "_James_."

As if he would have allowed her to pay for this, anyway. Still, he glared at her. He leaned against the bar beside her, watching as she adjusted her hair; she'd worn it down, in soft, full waves. She tossed it, ran her hands through it, leaving it full and tousled. Her green eyes flashed. She snatched a cowboy hat off the bar and placed it on her head.

"I'm gonna go dance," she said. "If you need to learn the moves, the kiddie area is over there. Have fun." She drew the brim over her eyes before giving him a smirk that was downright flirtatious, downing her shot, and taking a couple of steps backward, disappearing into the crowd.

He stared after her for a moment. Upbeat country music, complete with a strong, pounding rhythm, played loudly around him. Naturally, she'd eased into the dance floor, picking up on a line dance and finding her place in the lines of people. He came a little closer, took his shot, and watched her for a moment, shaking his head at her. She just grinned, tilting her head down, drawing the brim of her hat low and dancing, following the same steps everyone else was.

He had to admit, watching her was fun. He could see the wide smile on her face as she hooked her thumbs through her belt loops and did the little steps, hops, and skips, the little jumps and toe-taps, two-stepping here and there. He just observed at first, watching the moves, for once grateful for the instincts that allowed him to find the patterns and catch on quickly.

She pointed at him and crooked her finger at him: _Come here._ It was a challenge. He grinned and shook his head, and she rolled her eyes and spun in a circle, rotating her hips, giving him that _look_ again, that challenging look, that flirtatious look, and he grinned and joined her as a new song started up.

"Think you can handle it?" she asked.

"You kidding?"

He caught on quickly, of course. He was designed to learn quickly, more now than ever before. Everyone around them was enjoying themselves; there were hoots and hollers, the sounds of drunk people having fun. Mo laughed and tossed her hair, clapping her hands in time with the rest of the crowd. She faced him; there was a lot of enticing hip action on her part, rocking to and fro in a way that the girls back in the 40s just didn't do, and he rather enjoyed it.

When she looked at him again, that challenging look was back in her eyes, and he realized very quickly that she was out dancing him, even if it _was_ just a line dance. He watched her feet, imitating the movements, and when she caught him she did that little move again, turning in a slow circle, swiveling her hips as she went, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

He saw the challenge, and he accepted it. He would not allow her this. He stepped it up and she laughed loudly, gleefully, a genuine, free laugh. They clapped their hands again with everyone else, and before long he was easily dancing the dance, genuinely enjoying himself. It was so like back when he had done this before, taking girls out for a night of dancing, and it was so familiar to him. He was grinning broadly, watching her watching him, her smile mirroring his. After everything that had happened today, this was just what he needed.

The lines broke up suddenly, everyone seizing partners, and she was snatched away by another man who grabbed her arm and twirled her into him. Bucky, simultaneously, had grabbed another girl, but he was suddenly desperate to be partnered with her. Thankfully, they switched partners again and he seized the opportunity, snatching her hand and spinning her toward him. She placed her hat on his head, smiling as they were separated and she spiraled away.

He couldn't contain the smile that had spread over his face. He couldn't help it. He kept his eyes on her as she danced her way back to him, and he had one hand on her hip as they danced around each other in a circle before she was against him, one of her hands on his shoulder. She was very close, looking up at him, so close that he could feel her breath on his face. She leaned in and grabbed the front of his shirt and rotated her hips against his.

No, he thought, girls _definitely_ did not dance like this back in his day.

He was captivated by her in a way that he had never been before, and as he leaned closer to her she just smirked and pushed away from him, leaving him wanting more of her. He spun her and dipped her, earning a laugh, and when he looked up again he spotted them at the door: Sam and Steve had arrived. Mo followed his gaze and waved at them, and Bucky knew that whatever had just transpired between them was over.

* * *

He should have known. He should have _known_. Mo and Sam had seemed _way_ to smug about this whole thing. He had known something was up, he just hadn't expected this. He had wondered why Sam had been so obsessive over the way they dressed: Bucky In a faux-denim button up, Steve in a red flannel, Sam in jeans and a white t-shirt. Now, standing in the ridiculously country-themed bar, it all made sense.

Sam looked excited, and Steve couldn't blame him. The energy was contagious; there were hoots, hollers; laughter and whoops, and the music was loud and upbeat, so different from what he was used to.

"So," Sam said as they approached the bar, "how much do I gotta get you to drink to get you to dance?"

Steve grinned, shaking his head. It wasn't that he _hated_ dancing; he just lacked the experience. He'd never been any woman's first choice to dance with—that had always been Bucky, and for good reason. Sam handed him a three shots and they approached the dance floor, looking for Mo and Bucky—Mo had texted them a while ago letting them know they had arrived.

He had wondered, at first, why Bucky had been so insistent that he take Mo to dinner alone. _I've got work to do with this girl, bud,_ he had said, and Steve had brushed him off, in a way. But as Sam spotted them and pointed them out, it came together. Steve had suspected, only slightly, that Bucky was smitten with Mo, but it had only been a passing thought. He knew he'd been attached to her; he knew how hard the last year had been without her. But looking at them, now, it was clear.

Bucky was wearing a cowboy hat, of all things, but in a way it was an oddly, comfortingly _Bucky_ thing to do. The Bucky of the past would have easily put on a goofy hat if it meant impressing a girl. Mo, dressed in torn jeans and a lace blouse, was dancing with him, and they were very close; Mo even went so far as to grind her hips against his, just briefly, teasingly close to Bucky. Steve would make fun of him later for the look on his face as she pushed away from him.

As Bucky snapped her down and then back up, he spotted them and waved. Mo turned around and with a smile she waved at them, too, beckoning them closer. Sam drank his shot and Steve drank all three of his quickly, and Bucky and Mo left the dance floor to come meet them.

"Hi," panted Mo.

"Nice hat," Steve said to Bucky, who plucked it off his head and placed it on Steve's.

"Leave it," Sam said slyly. "It's a nice disguise. You look cute."

"You two look awful cozy," Steve said, "don't let us interrupt."

This earned a sharp look from Bucky and Mo laughed a breathless laugh. Sweat glistened on her neck and collarbone, and her hair, while silky, was full and wild, her green eyes flashing, bright. She reached out a hand for Sam's collection of shots and he handed her one.

"Ready to dance, Captain?" she asked, eyeballing Steve.

"Yeah," Bucky said, crossing his arms smugly, adjusting Steve's hat. "Ready to dance?" Steve punched him in the ribs and Bucky doubled over. Mo laughed.

"C'mon," she said, "you owe me." He knew she was referring to the year of silence, as they'd started calling it. "It's just line dancing, Steve," she said, "easy."

If he wanted to resist, he couldn't have, because Mo, Sam, and Bucky dragged him out onto the dance floor. He followed the moves—they weren't all that difficult, but part of him still felt like the awkward, sick little guy he had been before.

Before long, Sam had seized up a girl and was gone, dancing with her. Bucky was showing him up, of course, but was being supportive, and Mo seemed to be having the time of her life. He was intensely grateful for her, then, when she opted to dance with him.

* * *

Steve, as it turned out, wasn't a bad dancer. She wasn't sure why she was surprised. She had seen him fight—he was athletic, graceful, coordinated. So it shouldn't have been a surprise, but it was. Mo smiled and took to dancing with him, allowing him to spin her around, urging him to loosen up and have fun, which he did. She swiveled her hips and danced around him playfully, and he dipped her back and danced with her, but she immediately noticed they lacked the flow that she had with Bucky, which was fine. She enjoyed herself anyway, and seeing him smile was possibly the highlight of her night.

She was startled when she felt a hand on her arm, yanking her away from Steve, who laughed and surrendered her to Sam, who had reappeared. She and Sam, on the other hand, had a completely different chemistry altogether. She could dance with him as wild, as silly, or as dirty as she wanted and it wouldn't mean a thing, he kept up with her. He spun her around so that her back was to his chest, pressed against her briefly, laughing as he spun her around and they danced around each other.

It was one of the best nights Mo had had in a long, long time. She had to take a break, however, and was nearly in tears laughing as she caught Bucky and Steve dancing together—something that, judging by Steve's ridiculous laugh, had been Bucky's idea. Watching the both of them laughing, she wondered how many times they had done this in the past, goofing off to earn a laugh. It went on for only a couple of seconds before Steve took initiative and seized Mo, muttering "Save me." Bucky winked at him.

They bought more drinks as the night went on. Sam and Mo, who weren't super soldiers by any means, were quickly growing more and more drunk. As was everyone else in the bar, and before long the night had deteriorated into a drunken escapade that they would pretend to be embarrassed about but would secretly love telling the story, in the following order, or something similar:

Sam rode the mechanical bull. They had a beer each. Steve and Bucky did more shots and drank everyone in the bar under the table. Mo—and a few other women, urged on by the DJ—danced on the bar. Mo and Steve danced some more—with the alcohol in his system, he was much more willing to dance. Sam, drunkenly demanding a rematch, rode the mechanical bull again. He was thrown off within a second—the instant the thing moved, he rolled right off. Sam threw up but demanded more. Bucky and Steve had started another drinking competition, and everyone in the bar, also drunk, had gathered around and cheered them on, Mo and Sam included. Mo snuck off to throw up, which she would later deny. Bucky and Steve ended up in a competitive game of beer pong that very quickly turned aggressive. A bar fight ensued. They were thrown out of the bar. They wandered around, each of them at varying levels of drunkenness.

None of them, as it turned out, were fit to drive. Not even the super soldiers, who were stumbling as they walked, Bucky with his arm around Steve's shoulders. Sam was mumbling incoherently.

"Olivia is gonna be _so mad_ at us," Mo slurred, trying and failing to balance on the sidewalk. She stumbled, her legs like noodles, and Bucky caught her and somehow they all ended up seated on the curb, Mo smashed between Bucky and Sam.

"Why did I let you do this to me," Sam moaned, a hand over his mouth. Bucky was laughing a drunken laugh. Mo's head swam and she giggled.

"Liv's gonna kill us," she whispered.

"So what," Steve said petulantly. "We're _adults_. I'm _Captain America._"

At this, Bucky was laughing hysterically. Mo snorted and started laughing, and before long the four of them had dissolved into fits of giggles.

"Man," Sam gasped. "You two should be dead. No one can survive drinking that much."

"I feel _great_," Bucky said, and there was more laughter. Mo leaned against him with a moan, her face tingling, and she popped her lips.

"I need to pee," Mo whispered to Sam suddenly.

"What?" Bucky said.

"Shh," Steve mumbled.

"How do we get home?" Mo whispered. "_We're lost._"

"We're not lost," Bucky said, blinking and looking around. "Home is—that'a way."

"_We're lost!"_

"Shut up," Steve said, shoving Bucky and, as a result, Mo.

"Don't push me," Bucky growled, his words slurred. He shoved him back.

"Fight me," Steve said, pushing him again, and Bucky punched him in the stomach.

"We're lost," Mo whispered. "Where's the car?"

Bucky and Steve were grunting and tussling on the floor—it was a pretty pathetic fight, and Mo wasn't all that worried. Before long they collapsed, moaning.

"I'm gonna throw—" Steve puked.

"Oh, god," Mo moaned, her stomach churning. Bucky was laughing again.

"Just take me home," Sam whispered, sounding sad, frightened, like a child. Mo giggled. She stood and helped Sam to his feet, stumbling the whole way, and Bucky and Steve stood, too.

"How on earth are we getting home?"

* * *

It was the last thing Mo remembered, and then she was waking up in a bed that wasn't hers in a bedroom that wasn't hers in an apartment that also wasn't hers. She also had possibly the worst hangover she'd ever experienced. She felt nauseous and she rolled over, or tried to, but was pinned down by a heavy weight. It took her a moment to realize it was Sam, who she kicked awake.

"Where am I?" she moaned.

"I think we're at my place," Sam said. "Our place?"

Mo smelled food and she gagged. She snatched a bottle of water, which had been graciously left on the nightstand, and drank it all in one go. Sam moaned and whimpered.

"I'm going to die."

"How did we get here?"

"I have no idea," he said. Just then, the bedroom door opened and Bucky poked his head in.

"Good morning," he said loudly, brightly, and Mo clutched her head and threw the empty water bottle at him. "Glad to see you're alive!"

"What happened?" Mo asked, her mouth dry, her voice raspy.

"You and Sam passed out," he said. "So Steve and I carried you both back here. We need to pick up Tony's car, later."

"You—how are you alive and not hung over?" Sam groaned.

"Super serum perks," Bucky said with a shrug. He had this stupid, smug smirk on his face. Mo's stomach rolled again and she groaned. "Turns out, we sobered up a lot faster than you two."

"I still don't think I'm sober," Sam mumbled, and Mo moaned in agreement. Her phone started ringing, the ringtone shrill, and she winced and whimpered, reaching blindly for it.

"Oh, no," she whispered, turning the caller ID toward Sam, who looked frightened. "It's Olivia."

**AN: I had so much fun with this. Please review and let me know what you thought! I'm really curious! How did you like the Bucky/Mo bits? I figured they could use a group outing to loosen up a bit!**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Very short, filler-y chapter. Enjoy!**

Mo was back in one of the Stark tower conference rooms with Bucky, Sam, and Steve. She sat very still, a little nervous. Olivia was furious, and now they were waiting for her to arrive so they could figure out exactly how to handle the situation. They had no idea how bad it was or what was being said, only that Olivia had sounded nearly defeated on the phone.

Finally, she and Tony entered. Olivia got right to business.

"Dr. Fox," she said, "that's not your shirt."

"That's correct," Mo said.

"Whose shirt is it?"

"Mine," Bucky said, leaning forward a little. "I lent it to her—"

"Did I ask for an explanation?" Olivia snapped, and Bucky blinked and settled back down. Tony was grinning.

"You kids are busted," he said, and Steve rolled his eyes. Olivia switched on the TV in the corner, right to a news channel, and they all turned to look.

"—spent the night out dancing," the reporter was saying, "and getting drunk before finally getting into a nasty brawl that ended with the trio stumbling the streets with the woman, speculated to be Tony Stark's new partner, Doctor Moriah Fox—"

She switched the channel.

"—out partying like a bunch of frat boys—"

She changed the channel.

"—Winter Soldier and Captain America, getting down and dirty, clearly enjoying what this era has to offer—"

"And, my personal favorite," Olivia said, changing it again:

"—making up for lost time? He was spotted out at lunch with the woman pictured here, and then out dancing the very same night with _another_ woman—"

She shut it off.

"Hey," Bucky said, looking at the pictures on the screen, one of Steve sitting across from Olivia, smiling. "That's _you_."

"Impressive, Barnes," Olivia said coldly. "Nothing gets past you, does it?"

"Hey," Steve snapped, "leave him alone."

"You," Olivia said, "be quiet." Olivia sat down and rubbed her temples. "I mean, the amount of damage control I'm going to have to do is unreal—"

"Well," Steve said, arms crossed, "feel free to _not_. We never asked for your help."

Her eyes were cutting as she glared at him. "One more word, Rogers," she said. "One more word. Please test me; I'm in the mood to fight."

They stared each other down for a moment before Steve inclined his head in surrender, which, in Mo's opinion, was smart. As always, Olivia was very calm, very smooth, like the surface of a pond; but today there was an edge to her. Olivia went on.

"How are we going to handle this?" Olivia said. "Statements? Do you have _anything_ for me?"

The three of them stared at her blankly. Mo licked her lips. On top of the hangover, the realization was starting to set in. "So," Mo said slowly, "what do we do? Is it that big a deal?"

Olivia stared her down for a moment. "The last thing we need," she said, "is bar fights. It's—it's disrespectful. Rogers, you won your best friend back and now all of a sudden, now he's in your life, and it's all drunken bar brawls and frat-boy partying? Two women in the same day? Can't any of you see how that looks?"

"Like I'm dragging him down," Bucky said, and Olivia motioned to him and nodded.

"You're not dragging me down, Buck," Steve said. "And as for the women—one of those was _you, _Miss Tate. And there's nothing between Mo and me."

"I understand," Olivia said. "Dating rumors I can handle. But _you_, Fox—this is the opposite of what I asked you to do! What happened to keeping your distance? You're supposed to be a professional, working with Mr. Stark and the military, not some college-girl out partying with the boys."

"I'm sorry," Mo said, "I didn't think—"

"_You're wearing his shirt,_ for God's sake," Olivia said. "Look at this." She brought up a file on her tablet and handed it to them, for them all to see. It was a video of her dancing with Steve, then with Bucky. Her face wasn't clear, but there was speculation.

"Speculation will kill you," Olivia said. "Romance rumors, on top of everything else—it's the last thing we need. You need to think, Miss Fox—paparazzi are everywhere. What if someone had spotted you, with them, wearing Barnes's shirt? Do I need to spell it out for you?"

They were silent. Olivia took her tablet back and looked at them all.

"Look," she said, her voice firm, but quieter than before. She tucked a silvery strand of hair behind her ear. "I know that you don't want me. And that's fine. If you're so set in your belief that I'm unnecessary, then so be it. I'll go. Because it's clear that no matter what I say, you refuse to listen."

Her eyes switched between them. Mo huddled into her shirt a little, feeling ashamed of herself. She inhaled, comforted slightly by the familiar scent of Bucky, which was odd. She'd never realized he'd had a distinct scent before, much less that she was familiar with it. Olivia seemed to be waiting for them to say something, and Mo, Bucky, and Sam all looked at Steve. He looked up, eyebrows quirked.

"What?"

"Man," Sam said, "we all know she's talking to you."

"I—" Steve looked at Olivia and she looked at him for a long moment. Mo's eyes roved between them, watching them carefully. Maybe Steve didn't like her, she thought, but he did treat her as an equal, no holds barred, so to speak. And the way they looked at each other now, Mo could feel the tension between them, two alphas in their own respects, challenging each other.

Tony began to cough. "_Get a room,_" he gasped between coughs. Sam laughed; Bucky smirked.

"Mr. Stark, please," said Olivia, seemingly unphased, without looking away from Steve. She gave Steve that _look_—that look, Mo thought, that she only ever gave Steve, with one eyebrow raised, half her mouth quirked in a subtle smirk. Mo wished she was capable of that look. "Well?" Olivia asked.

Steve leaned forward, elbows on the table, and finally lowered his eyes and nodded. "Alright," he said after a long silence. "I think you're right. I never quite realized it before, but seeing all of this—we're in over our heads. Last night was an innocent night. If they can spin it the way you say they can, then—we could use the help. Lord knows I don't know what I'm doing."

For just a split second, just a breath, Olivia looked startled, but her expression smoothed over again.

"It's my fault," Bucky said suddenly. "Don't—I mean, they're right. Soon as I came around, his reputation was shot, and I know it's true and so do you, Steve, don't deny it."

"So how do we fix it?" Mo asked.

Olivia blew out a breath. "Start by wearing your own clothes, Miss Fox," Olivia said pointedly. "Your personal life is your personal life. I could not care less about your romantic attachments, so long as you keep them private—"

"I—whoa, no," Mo said quickly. "Don't—you mean Steve? No. I mean, no offense, Steve, but no."

Steve raised his hands. "None taken."

"As I said," Olivia said crisply. "I don't care. But the media, the paparazzi—they're all going to be sniffing around for that story. They love it. They'll have a field day. Already, they're going with the _two women, one night_ line, and God knows I need to clean that up, but let's not add fuel to the fire, alright? One thing at a time."

"Yeah," Mo said. "Sorry. I mean, I know it was stupid, I just didn't—"

"I'm not saying not to have fun," Olivia said. "I'm not saying that at all. God knows you've all been through hell. Relax. Steve, I understand you've got your buddy back and you three are gonna do your bro-bonding thing, and that's fine. But when you do it, please, just—just remember there are always eyes on you. Always."

With a deep sigh, one that sounded almost tired, Olivia stood, her tablet in her hands. "That's it," she said. "I've got a lot of work to do, thank you for that—as if I wasn't busy enough coordinating that magazine spread, now this—"

Steve stood suddenly. "I'm sorry," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. Everyone looked at him, and Olivia looked slightly taken aback. "I know that I've treated you poorly, and that's not my style. You've been nothing but helpful—with the photoshoot, and Bucky's flashback, and now this…"

Rather than look flattered or soothed, Olivia just gave him a cold look. "Thank you for finally acknowledging that, Captain Rogers," she said frostily. She glanced at them all, pushing her hair behind one ear. "I'll be in touch. I'll need statements from all of you. Use this time to think."

With that she turned and left the room, heels clicking, already on the phone with someone else. Tony whistled lowly.

"Damn," he said. "Uptight little thing, isn't she? Little ice queen. Someone needs to thaw her out."

"Be nice," Mo said, watching her go. "We screwed up."

"_You_ screwed up," Tony pointed out, standing and pointing at them. "I'm on her good side. It's nice there. Seems a little chilly where you're all at." He turned. "You're lucky you have today off, Dr. Fox," he said. "How's the hangover?"

Mo groaned. He laughed and left the room.

"Man, I'm sorry," Sam said. "This was all my idea."

"It was my fault I got drunk," Steve said. "Everything after that is on me."

Sam gave him a look, a wicked smile on his face. "Hey," he said slowly. "How come you didn't tell her to lay off? You're _Captain America_, remember? She can't tell you what to do."

"You're gonna go there," Steve said as Bucky snorted with laughter.

"Went there," Sam said, "she'd have tore your ass apart." Then he turned to Mo. "And _you_," he said.

"Me," Mo repeated, blinking at him.

"Yeah, you," Sam said, "dancing like that with these two innocent old guys—"

"Hardly," Bucky muttered.

"I saw the videos. Looking to give 'em heart attacks?"

"I'd say," Bucky said.

"Shut up," Mo mumbled, hiding her face, leaning her head against her arms on the table. She could feel her cheeks heating.

"Well," Bucky said, stretching as Mo peaked up at him. "I don't know about you, but _I_ had fun."

"Oh, I bet you did," Sam muttered, and Bucky used his cybernetic arm to knock Sam's chair over. Sam yelped and Mo laughed, standing.

"Girl, where you going?" Sam asked.

"My room," she said, scrubbing a hand over her face. She wore her torn jeans and Bucky's shirt, comfortingly large on her. Her hair was up in a knot. "I could use a shower and I need to sleep this off."

"I'm in," Sam said.

"You weren't _invited_," she said.

"I'm in anyway," Sam replied. "I'm too old for this hangover crap. I need to sleep. Home is to far."

Mo sighed, looking at the other two. "Anyone else?"

"Might as well," Bucky said, grinning a lopsided grin. His blue eyes scanned her up and down, lingering on his shirt. "It'll be just like old times."

**AN: So I'm really liking the Olivia/Steve chemistry. The next chapter will be more fun, promise! Someone requested a Mo/Olivia girl-talk moment, so that's what we're going to get! Please drop a review. I'm loving how many this is getting. Talk abut motivation!**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Girl time, and a fun twist! Sorry about the wait for this one – my computer's keyboard stopped working, so obviously writing was impossible. Hope you enjoy! I made it extra long to make up for it!**

A little over a week had passed since their night out, since the photoshoot and the flashback. The magazine with their photos and interviews had just been released and Mo, of course, had bought a copy and paged through it. There wasn't anything in it that was surprising or knew; she knew everything that they had said, and it was all the basics, nothing too revealing. But the photos were what got her attention. The front cover was a picture of Steve, a headshot split down the middle, half of his face from the 40s, from his army ID picture; the other half was the modern version of him. The tagline read:

_An interview with the man out of time: What it means to be a hero._

The pictures on the inside were similar, one for the each of them: Sam, a photo split between his military ID and of him now; Bucky, his picture split between an ID photo of him as the Winter Soldier, and the Bucky she knew, his hair short, his face clean-shaven, eyes clear.

Looking at that picture of him, half of his face cold, lifeless, and the other half with a little spark of life made her uncomfortable. She didn't particularly like to think of the way he had been before; she'd seen enough, and what was _after_ he'd managed to drag himself out of the Winter Soldier. She didn't like to think of what they had done to him to leave him so cold, like a machine. She avoided anything online, all leaked information, even though she was painfully curious sometimes. It wasn't fair to him.

The other pictures, though, she loved. There was one of the three of them laughing together, Steve with his eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a laugh, Bucky with his head tilted down, hand on his chest, wearing a wide smile as he laughed, and Sam smirking like he'd just told the joke. The page had been titled: "_America's Golden Trio"_, which she appreciated: Clearly, this magazine was taking their side.

There was one of Steve by himself, featured with his interview. He was standing there, arms crossed, and she recognized the slightly exasperated look on his face: it was the look that seemed to be reserved for Olivia, his eyebrows quirked, his mouth tilted up, only just slightly. It was a nice picture of him. He looked like Captain America, and there was a quote at the bottom: "_I was just trying to do what's right – that's all I've ever wanted to do."_ He'd been talking about the trial.

Sam's picture, along with his interview, was something she would have expected from Sam. He stood, his hands braced on his hips, his head stilted up, eyes distant, the typical, traditional superhero pose. The tagline on his spread said it all: _Sam Wilson: Embracing the Falcon._ Mo rolled her eyes. Of course. There was also a bolded quote from him, taken out of context, but classic Sam all the same: _"You don't mess with the Falcon."_

And then there was Bucky's spread. He stood, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched slightly, looking up at the viewer with what could only be described as a puppy-dog look. His hair was soft and tousled, his lips full and parted slightly, his eyes stunningly blue. His eyebrows were drawn slightly so that he looked almost puzzled, his head tilted just a bit to one side. How anyone could look at him, and that face, and hate him, Mo had no idea. He could get anything with that look. It was the look of a heartbreaker. His quote read: _"I'm still not sure who I am […] but they're helping."_

Mo sighed and flipped around some more before finally setting the magazine on her nightstand and standing, stretching. She'd convinced Olivia to have dinner with her tonight, and had insisted that Olivia dress _down_ for the occasion.

"_No heels_," Mo had insisted. "Street style. I believe in you." Olivia had huffed that she wasn't making any promises.

It was nearly time to leave. And, since Mo hadn't seen the boys in a few days (not that she'd admit to missing them), she was feeling a little lonely, and she _did_ miss them. Dinner with Olivia had sufficed; she was tired of being locked up in the Stark tower. She'd opted to wear a snug pair of jeans, a leather jacket (_real_ leather, she was proud say. Stark paid her well), and Bucky's shirt. He wasn't getting it back, that much she knew. It was large, and it was comforting, and it looked good on her, especially the way she wore it now: knotted so that it fit her better, showing just the slightest glimpse of skin when she walked. She tried not to notice that it still smelled like him and, if asked, she would deny that she'd taken a deep breath of the scent.

She'd tied her hair in a loose braid, pulling it over one shoulder, little wisps framing her face, and she was ready to go. She tugged on a pair of boots and was appropriately street-dressed, and she was eager to see what Olivia looked like outside of a professional atmosphere. She also planned to talk to the other girl about Bucky's flashbacks. Since Olivia was seeing them more often than Mo was, she figured it would be smart to make sure she could handle herself and Bucky if she needed to.

Olivia was waiting for her outside the restaurant, a small, crowded little place.

Mo knew, of course, that Olivia was short. Even in heels, Olivia had never measured up to Mo's height. Admittedly, Mo _was_ tall for a girl, around five-nine, and in heels she towered over most people. She only looked normal height because such monstrous men surrounded her. Olivia, on the other hand, was shorted than Mo even when Olivia wore heels and Mo didn't. But Mo hadn't expected that Olivia was quite as small as she was. She'd have been lucky if she maxed out at five feet, even, and she was maybe ninety pounds soaking wet. Alright, Mo thought, maybe that was an exaggeration, but still.

Mo nearly said something about it, but then stopped. She knew Olivia probably received it all the time. But she couldn't stop the smile that spread over her face upon seeing the other girl, who immediately glared because Mo knew that she knew exactly why Mo was smiling.

"I'm not that short," Olivia said immediately. "You're just tall."

"I didn't say anything," Mo said, feeling more like a giant than she ever had in her life. "How tall are you exactly?"

"Tall enough to knock you out," Olivia snapped, and Mo laughed.

"Short people are so _mean_," Mo observed.

"Because we're closer to hell," Olivia said with a roll of her eyes. "This is why I live in heels."

"It's—"

"Don't you dare say cute," Olivia said, and Mo sealed her lips together. Olivia groaned. "C'mon," she grumbled, "let's go, Sasquatch."

"Gremlin," Mo mumbled, and Olivia bristled.

They headed inside and Olivia seemed to have let it go, smiling a little, in fact. The two girls, in working together, had fallen into an easy sort of friendship, and they enjoyed being around each other, usually joking at the boys' expense when they weren't around to hear. Mo was determined to get Olivia to lighten up some, but all in good time, she thought.

Olivia had done as she'd asked, at least, and dressed down. She was a beautiful girl, Mo thought enviously, and still somehow managed to look better than everyone else with her soft, relaxed feminine style. With her black pants, oversized sweater, and boots, coupled with her soft makeup and gently tousled silver hair, Mo thought she looked more like a petite model than a publicist. Mo was, again, struck by how opposite they were: Mo was all scars and hardness, leather jackets and knotted shirts and wild hair, tall and strong; Olivia, on the other hand, was soft and tiny, lovely and cold in the distant way that ice was lovely and cold. Olivia, in spite of her size, walked into a room and commanded it. She nearly brought Captain America to his knees.

Olivia gave her a look, screwing her mouth to one side slightly as she looked at Mo. She pointed vaguely at Mo's chest, sitting across from her at the table.

"Is that Barnes's shirt?"

"What? Oh, yeah," Mo said, and Olivia stared at her. "What?" she asked defensively.

"Nothing," Olivia said airily, eyes lingering on the shirt for a moment.

"It's a nice shirt," Mo pointed out.

"I bet it is," Olivia said. Her eyes were calculating. "Are you dating anyone? Do you mind if I ask?"

"Ask whatever you want," Mo said. "And, no, I'm not."

"Why not?"

Mo stared at her for a moment, then motioned at her face. "You've looked at me, right?"

Olivia gasped dramatically, as though she had been slapped. "You can't be serious!" When Mo just rolled her eyes, Olivia went on. "You're stupid. Don't be stupid. You're hot—you look like a badass. I wish I looked like you."

Mo laughed. "Nah," she said. "But, I mean, aside from the scars, like, I'm missing a leg. And an eye. And I've got mental problems, you know? Nightmares, flashbacks, anxiety. I figure no guy deserves to deal with that mess, so I just kinda avoid it."

"Even Barnes?" Olivia asked slowly.

"You're subtle," Mo said dryly.

"Oh, come on," Olivia said, exasperated. "You're wearing the man's shirt. Also, I've seen the way he looks at you. And the way you look at him, when you think no one's looking, but I'm always looking, so—"

"God, could you be any creepier?" Mo asked, laughing. "No, it's not like that between us."

"It's not like that, or you're pretending it's not like that? You can't say you haven't noticed."

Mo tugged her braid. "I mean, I've noticed—"

"You've thought about it?"

"I—well, of course I have," Mo confessed. "But, like, come on. He's Bucky Barnes. Ex-Winter Soldier, Captain America's Best Friend. And I'm the kid who got blown up by Tony Stark. On top of my problems—"

"He's got problems," Olivia pointed out.

"Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that—"

"Nice try, Fox," Olivia said, smirking. "But we're not changing the subject."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Girl talk," Olivia said. "I don't have any girl friends. Or friends, period."

"I can't imagine why," Mo said with a grin, and Olivia just smiled.

"So," she said. "You and Barnes."

"It's not—"

"You've thought about it," Olivia said, "you just said so. So you've noticed the way he is—"

"I mean, he's a flirtatious person," Mo said slowly. "He's always been that way."

"Not with me," Olivia said.

"Maybe you're not his type," Mo said blandly.

"But you are," Olivia pointed out. "Do you have feelings for him?"

"What on earth? This is ridiculous. You're acting insane."

"Because I saw the videos of you two dancing, and let me tell you," Olivia sighed, fanning herself dramatically. "If I had a man dancing with me like that—"

"_Olivia!"_

"What? I'm just saying!" Olivia laughed. "You can't deny it."

"It doesn't matter," Mo said. "Like I said—no one deserves to go through the crap I'd put them through. It's too messy."

"I think he'd volunteer," Olivia said, and her voice was gentler now. "I mean, the way the guy looks at you…"

Mo shook her head, sipping her water. "You're seeing things."

"You're trying _not_ to see things," Olivia said.

Mo's heart pounded, just slightly. The fact that she'd been becoming steadily more and more aware of Bucky, and in different ways, was something that hadn't slipped her mind. Olivia was right, of course, they both knew it; Mo was just in denial for more reasons than one. Sure, she and Bucky had gotten close a year ago—very close, but she'd meant what she said. She had problems. But then, Olivia was right. The way she'd danced with him the other night hadn't been innocent. She'd flirted with him, she'd teased him, and she'd done it on purpose. It was thrilling, and the fact that he'd done it right back—well, it was a night she thought about often. She found herself thinking about _him_ often, and while she did consider them friends, she'd begun to think of him in a way that was more than a little friendly, particularly after that night. She hid it well enough, but whenever he was in the room, she was constantly just _aware_ of him.

Mo put her face in her hands and groaned. Olivia reached across the table and patted her head.

"I like this," she said, "girl time is fun."

"Oh, shut up," Mo laughed. "If you tell him—"

"Why on earth would I say anything? Come on." Mo groaned again. "Can't blame you," Olivia said. "I mean, he's hot." Mo snorted and Olivia had a comically predatory look in her eyes. "He's got that whole bad-boy thing going on… and those _eyes._"

Mo was laughing, but she was nodding. "He does have pretty eyes," she said, "and he smells nice." Olivia looked dreamy. "He gives good hugs, too, and his lips—"

"Oh, his lips," Olivia sighed.

"And that new haircut—"

"You're welcome," Olivia said, and Mo laughed.

"Stop," she said, "he's your client. You're being unprofessional."

Olivia gave a half-shrug, half-nod. "True," she said.

"It's not just his looks, though," Mo said slowly. "I mean, he's been through so much, Olivia. So much. We've been through a lot together—he nearly—never mind. But it's been bad. And he's just such a good person, you know? He's come so far—Don't look at me like that."

"What!" Olivia cried innocently, and Mo squared her shoulders.

Alright, she thought. Time to turn the tables.

"So, speaking of good-looking super-soldiers—_what_ is the deal between you and Captain America?"

Olivia's lip curled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean the sexual tension between you two," Mo said, and Olivia's eyes widened. "Everyone's noticed. It's uncomfortable, Olivia."

"Don't be gross," Olivia said dryly. "There's no sexual tension."

At this, Mo laughed. "Girl!" she cried. "Yes there is!"

"No there isn't!"

"I lived with the guy," Mo said, "and I've never seen him like this. It's sexual tension. Definitely."

"You're insane," Olivia said, but there was just the slightest quirk to her mouth. "He's my grandfather's age. He—he's the most obnoxious, _stubborn_, pig-headed, pain in my ass—"

"That means nothing," Mo pointed out.

"Shut up," Olivia said, rolling her eyes.

"Not so fun when you're the one in the hot seat, is it—are you blushing?"

"Lay off," Olivia snapped, and Mo grinned. Olivia ran her hands over her face, glaring. "That man is a nightmare," she said pointedly. "Nothing more, nothing less."

* * *

Steve caught Bucky by the throat and slammed him back into the carpet. Bucky groaned, shoving Steve's arm away as Steve laughed, pulling back and helping his friend to his feet.

"He's kicking your ass, Barnes," Sam said from the couch. They'd cleared out the living room to make a meager sparring ring, and Bucky and Steve had been going at it for a while, now.

Steve, panting, backed away and flopped down on the couch next to Sam. His phone went of, as it had been every couple of hours all day, and he didn't need to check it to know that it was a message from Olivia, giving him some update on something, he was sure. He reached for it, but Bucky, so quickly that the motion was a blur, snatched the phone up with a smirk.

"Wonder who this could be," he said, tossing the phone to and fro. He caught it and glanced at the screen. "Any guesses?"

"Olivia, most likely," Steve said drolly.

"Correct," Bucky chirped.

"Give it," Steve said, holding out his hand, and Bucky tossed it to him. He caught it and checked the message. It was a picture of her and Mo, but Steve was immediately unnerved. The picture had been taken from a slight distance, clearly candid; the girls were completely unaware that their photo had been taken, but they were laughing. Steve sat up straight, immediately catching the others' attentions. The caption was ominous:

_Come play with us?_

"We need to go," Steve said, staring at the screen. He stood abruptly and Bucky put a hand on his chest, staying him.

"What is it?" he demanded.

Steve's phone went off again. Another text from Olivia's number, and now it was a video of them standing and leaving the table, Olivia stopping abruptly to rummage through her purse. The caption read: _I think she noticed her phone's missing… time to go!_

"They're being followed," he said, handing Bucky the phone.

"What?" Sam said. "Where are they?"

"I don't know," Steve said. "Bucky, did Mo tell you where they were going?"

"No," he said, and his expression had gone cold upon viewing the images. His hand tightened on the phone and Steve grabbed it back, tossing it to Sam.

"Who's sending this?"

"No idea," Steve said. "We have to find them." Steve took his phone back and called Olivia's cell and, to his surprise, someone picked up the line, laughed, and then hung up. He swore. "Bucky, call Mo."

"Already tried, she's not picking up."

"_Keep trying_," Steve snapped.

"You don't say?" Bucky rolled his eyes and tried her again, but still got no answer. Steve threw on some shoes, as did the others, and they were headed out the door when Bucky's phone started ringing.

"Mo!" he said, putting her on speaker. "You—"

"Hi," she said sweetly, but her voice was urgent. "Hey, so, Olivia and I are being followed."

"Where are you?"

"We just left Gino's," she said.

"We're on our way," Bucky said.

"Thanks," she breathed.

"What do they look like?"

"Can't tell," Mo said. "They've got hats on."

"How many?"

"Three," Mo said. "Two men, one woman."

"Anything distinct? What can you tell me?"

They were on the street already, pushing through people.

"Not Hydra," she said, panting now, "it's obvious. Someone else. Gaining pretty quick, aggressive. White shoes on one, the woman's got gray running shoes, can't tell the other one. Casually dressed, walking in a V formation, white shoes in front—"

"That's my girl," Bucky said, and Steve scanned for them, though he knew there wasn't any chance of spotting them just yet. "They took Olivia's phone, they sent us pictures—"

"Never mind," Mo said suddenly, "don't come. They're baiting you."

"We—"

"I can handle it, dollface," Mo said lowly. "They're obviously civilians. Stay away; I got this."

* * *

"Slow down," Olivia panted. "Short legs, here." Mo was power walking, holding Olivia's hand, dragging her along. Olivia's heart raced. She had no idea what was going on, only that her phone had been stolen and that they were being followed. Mo turned sharply, leading them into an alley, and their pursuers followed. Handing the phone to Olivia, still connected to Bucky, Mo tugged on Olivia's arm and whipped her around, her back against the wall. Mo stepped in front of her protectively, facing the three who were following them. One man stepped forward and Mo didn't even give him the chance to speak; she lunged forward and Olivia cried out, startled, and it was almost pathetic: Mo dropped the man quickly, and she even laughed.

"That's it?" she asked, and the other two came at once. The woman went for Olivia, who wasn't a fighter, and she screamed, dropping the phone and throwing her arms up to protect herself. The woman punched her in the stomach and Olivia doubled over, and then the woman brought her knee into Olivia's face, connecting with her nose, and it was easily one of the most painful things Olivia had ever experienced. Olivia went to her knees and blood gushed, and before she knew it the woman was kicking her in the ribs and had her on the ground.

A few moments later the woman was screaming and when Olivia looked, Mo had her by the hair, kicked out her legs, and threw her to the ground, crouching over her, using her knees to pin her down.

"You okay?" Mo asked.

"Yeah," Olivia mumbled thickly through the blood. She stayed where she was on the ground, peering at her friend, who looked savage. She'd pinned the other woman down, her lips drawn back in a snarl, her hair coming loose; a bruise was blooming on her jaw and her jacket had gone missing, and the skin on her knuckles was raw. The other man was on his knees, groaning.

"Who are you?" Mo demanded, jarring the woman. "Why are you following us?"

The woman laughed and Mo sighed, rolled her eyes, and punched her.

"Gonna make me ask you again?"

"We're sending a message," the woman choked.

"You—"

"Hey!"

Olivia sat up slightly; three men stood at the mouth of the alley, and for a moment she was alarmed before she recognized them.

"I told you not to come," Mo said from her place on top of the woman. "I've got it handled."

"Looks like it," Steve said, looking impressed, and then his eyes fell on Olivia. "Olivia," he said urgently, rushing to her side. She pushed him away feebly, wincing at the pain in her side from where she'd been kicked. Steve crouched beside her, helping her up as Sam went to the first man, Bucky kicked the second one over, and came to Mo's side. She grinned up at him and he sighed, pulling her off the woman and standing over her.

"Who are you?" Steve asked as Mo roamed around, reminding Olivia distinctly of a wolf on the prowl. She stopped at the first man she'd taken down, searching his pockets with a smirk as she found Olivia's phone. Olivia smiled a little, and then several things seemed to happen at once. The man Bucky had knocked over had stood and he had a gun, and it was pointed at Steve. Olivia, now standing, immediately stepped in front of him. Bucky threw a knife—Olivia didn't know where he'd been storing it—and it hit him in the hand. The gun went off and Olivia screamed.

Bucky, Olivia, and Steve had all been standing in the line of fire, and the man's aim had gone awry. Olivia's ears were ringing and she staggered against the sound, suddenly off balance.

"Olivia! Olivia!" Mo was screaming, but she sounded warped, distant. She felt Steve's hands around her waist as she stumbled, confused, thrown off balance. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man who had fired take off, sprinting, and Steve ordered Bucky after him, and Bucky was gone.

Somehow, Olivia was on her back on the ground. Steve was above her, hovering over her, looking at her, asking her questions that she couldn't answer.

* * *

"Oh, thank God," Mo laughed, and then laughed a little harder at the look on Olivia's face, as though she couldn't figure out why Mo was laughing. She'd yanked up Olivia's shirt to inspect the wound and, at the sight of it had felt overwhelmed with relief. It was just a small, angry little hole at her tiny waist. "It just grazed her."

"Thank God," Steve said, smiling a little, shaking his head.

"She's going to be fine," Mo said, "but she's just going into shock; I can't imagine she's ever been through something like this before. Poor thing."

"Shut up," Olivia snapped, wincing.

"You're gonna look like hell tomorrow," Mo said. Behind her, she heard Sam taking out the other two, leaving them breathing, to be found by someone else.

"Shouldn't we take her to the hospital?"

"Nah," Mo said slowly, thoughtfully. "I can take care of this. Besides, I don't imagine she'll be too happy with all the press that'd get."

"I don't know," Steve said hesitantly.

"Hey," Mo said, "I've seen much worse. She'll be fine."

The look on his face was strange as he looked down at Olivia, but Mo couldn't linger on it long. Sam came up behind her, looked down at Olivia.

"Thank god," he said, "when I saw that bullet hit her, I thought for sure—"

"She's fine," Mo said, "just shock. Steve, Sam and I know how to deal with this. She'll be fine, I promise. Let's get her home and cleaned up, okay?"

"Yeah," Steve said. "Yeah, alright."

"Bucky's gone after that other asshole," Sam said. "These wouldn't talk, but I'm sure he'll be a little more persuasive."

"Yeah," Mo said, "yeah, sure, let's just get her out of here. Steve?" Steve looked at her and at the look on her face, she stopped. "Sam," she said, "get Olivia, we're leaving."

She stood and grabbed Steve, forcing him up and backing up a little. He tried to get around her, to Olivia, but she stopped him, one hand firmly on his chest.

"Don't do it," she said softly, "don't do this to yourself. I know what you're thinking."

"Can we do this later?" he said harshly, and then his expression softened. "I'm sorry," he said. "But we'll talk about this later. Let's just—focus on her, alright?"

She nodded and let him pass, watching as he insisted on taking her from Sam. Mo hurried closer; she fit perfectly in his arms, so small that she was tucked away safely, curled up, secure. Her face was bloody and deathly pale, and even though none of her wounds were deadly, Mo feared a concussion, and Olivia was just so _small_ it was hard not to worry about her.

Walking on Steve's other side, Mo kept a lookout for Bucky, worried even though no one else seemed to be. These people were civilians; she'd taken them down quickly, it was clear that they lacked even the most basic skills. But they'd had a gun, and that had made them deadly. It could have been much worse had Bucky not acted when he had, and now she feared for him, hoped he would be okay, not only because he would face this man but possibly the Winter Soldier as well.

Mo dragged herself out of these thoughts, focusing on what was in front of her, instead.

"Are you sure about the hospital?" Steve asked. Olivia's blood had stained his white shirt, smudged his biceps. Mo nodded.

"Combat medic," she reminded him. "This is just a scratch. She'll be fine."

**AN: Pleases review! Super excited about the next chapter!**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: A Mo/Bucky chapter :)**

Mo knew that she wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight, so she didn't even bother. She'd taken care of Olivia and cleaned her up. The boys, thankfully, had an emergency medical kit in the apartment, which made sense. She figured they probably got banged up a lot. She'd cleaned up the blood, disinfected the cuts—a clean little slice on the bridge of Olivia's nose which, miraculously, wasn't broken, just badly bruised, and another cut on one of her high, angular cheekbones, and a split lip—and she'd stitched up the little wound in her side. Olivia had fought her on it (she wasn't a fan of needles, apparently) but as soon as Mo had threated to ask Steve to come in and hold her down, Olivia had allowed her to finish the stitches.

Olivia was sleeping, now, and once Mo had left the room Steve had insisted on going in to be with Olivia, which Mo had allowed. Olivia wouldn't be too happy, she knew, but she also knew to choose her battles when it came to Steve, so she'd allowed it. The last she'd seen, Steve was seated beside the bed, _his_ bed, like a sentinel. There was a great amount of guilt in his eyes, but Mo knew better than to try and talk to him now. She'd left them alone. Sam, after asking her a million and one questions about her mental health and well being (which she appreciated; he knew her triggers) had headed out to keep watch and make sure they hadn't been followed.

Mo was alone, now. She sighed; she was exhausted, sore. The man, even though he was a civilian, had gotten a couple of hits in. She wandered around the apartment, stripping off her bloodied gloves and dropping them in the trash. The process had been clean, thankfully, only a little smudge of blood on her shirt because Olivia had grabbed her. She padded around the kitchen, kicking off her shoes and tying her hair back and out of her face. She leaned over the sink, bracing her elbows on the edge, and washed her face, swishing cool water in her mouth and spitting out blood.

She worried about Bucky. They hadn't heard anything from him since he'd gone after the man, but she reminded herself that could have been for a number of reasons. He could have damaged his phone. He could have gone a long way, and on foot, too. But then, he could be hurt, or worse. He could be wandering around as the Winter Soldier, and it was that thought that had her nervous, twitchy, anxious. She blew out a breath, turning off the water, and passed a hand towel over her face.

She needed to change her pants; the knee had been torn and bloodied, slightly, and she was uncomfortable. She headed to Sam's room and rummaged through his drawers and found a pair of black basketball shorts. She changed into them, leaving her pants wadded up in the corner, and checked herself in the mirror. She grimaced; she looked wired. She needed to relax.

Aside from the blood smudge, Bucky's shirt had stayed in decent condition, with a slight tear at the bottom. She'd lost her leather jacket, which she was more upset about than she cared to admit. She'd never had such a nice jacket, but it'd been torn off and she hadn't thought about it until now. Sure, she could replace it, but she didn't _want_ to. She'd never really had nice things before, and now that she had something, it had been lost. She considered checking the alley in the morning, but then abandoned the idea. Someone, anyone else would have taken it by now.

She re-tied the bottom of his shirt so that it fit her more snugly, showing off a strip of skin between the bottom of the shirt and the waistline of the pants, revealing some of her scars, but she didn't care, especially not around them.

Her fingers were twitchy and her mind was going a hundred miles an hour, her anxiety levels through the roof, questions bombarding her: who had those people been? What had they wanted? Where was Bucky?

She groaned. She glanced around the room and swiped a pair of Sam's headphones, plugging them into her ears and into her phone, cranking up the volume to her _Good Mood_ playlist, designed to do just that—get her mind off things with music that she loved to put her in a good mood. She tucked the phone into the waist of the mesh shorts, against her skin, and headed back into the kitchen. She was hungry, and she knew herself well enough to know that sleep was a bad idea.

She rummaged through their cabinets and found herself exasperated: of _course_ she had nothing to work with. They'd eaten everything, and no one had gone grocery shopping. But they had milk and they had cereal, so she settled for that, pacing around to grab a bowl. Things in this house were uncommonly high, probably because they were all so tall, and she had to stretch up on her bare feet to reach the bowl.

She felt the presence behind her just before she felt a hand on her hip, one on the back of her neck, and she spun around with a gasp and a yelp, ripping the earphones from her ears, finding herself face-to-face with Bucky.

* * *

He found her in the kitchen. Her back was to him as she roamed around, searching their cabinets for food and finding very little. He greeted her, called out to her, but she ignored him. He stepped forward, confused, and then caught sight of the phone and the earphones, and he understood.

He hung back for a moment, observing her; he didn't often get the chance to see her like this. He noted that she was wearing the shirt that he'd let her borrow, a white button up, knotted at the waist with the sleeves rolled up, and he smiled a little to himself. She walked slowly, rhythmically, to whatever song was playing, and he caught her singing under her breath, absently—_"When my time comes around/lay me gently in the cold dark earth/no grave can hold my body down/I'll crawl home to her…"_

He felt calmer, watching her. He'd felt stressed before—he still did—but it was a little easier to bear now that he was distracted. He could have watched her like this for hours; she pulled milk out of the fridge and cereal out of the cupboard, wandering around to stretch up for a bowl, his shirt riding up, revealing a bit of her back. He stepped forward then, and as he did he noticed the tattoo on the back of her neck, a tattoo he'd never heard the story behind, one he'd noticed soon after meeting her. He placed one hand gently on her hip to warn her of his presence, his left hand, the prosthetic, brushing the tattoo, leaving a streak of blood behind that made his head swim.

She flinched and yelped, spinning around, and he raised his hands immediately. A look of relief washed over her face as her green eyes settled on him, the earphones dangling from her hand. He smirked at her and reached up, grabbing two bowls off the shelf.

"Oh, thank god," she said, her eyes searching his face. She looked emotional for a moment, reached out to touch him, withdrawing her hand a moment later before she made contact, her motions jumpy, hesitant. "Are you okay?"

"I—" he set the bowls down, leaving behind a bit of blood on the rims. Stupid, he thought. He held up his hands between them, the knuckles on his flesh hand bruised and bloody, only some of it his own blood. His fingers were sticky with the man's blood, and he stared at them for a moment, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and he only looked back at Mo when she slid her fingers between his, lowering his hands out of his line of sight. Her motions were slow, gentle, and she grounded him, brought him back to reality, which had begun to slip.

She traced her thumbs in patterns on both his hands, and he focused on the sensation. Looking into her eyes, he knew that she knew what he had done; he didn't need to say it, and she didn't ask him. She licked her lips, holding his gaze, and she nodded, releasing his hands and lifting one of hers to touch his face. He leaned into the touch, craving it, longing for something to steady his nerves, his face hot with shame—not only at what he had done, but at his inability to handle it the way he had before—long before he'd come out of Hydra's control.

"Look at me," she said, and he hadn't realized he'd zoned out. She pulled her hand back and stepped into him, wrapping her arms around him firmly. He stood there for a moment, steadying his breathing, hands held out, awkwardly, before he put them around her delicately, afraid to break her.

"You're shaking," she said against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was low and rough. She pulled away at the sound of it, her head tilted to one side.

"Sorry?"

"For everything I've done," he said, and even to his own eyes he sounded distant. "I—"

"Hey," she said, taking one of his hands. He left dull streaks of blood behind wherever he touched her, and something inside of him tightened. She led him over to the sink and turned on the water, wetting her hands and pumping some soap. "Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

He nodded numbly, surrendering his hands to her. She gently washed away the blood, then dampened a cloth with warm water and dabbed away at the blood on his face—not his blood. She lifted herself up so that she was sitting on the countertop beside the sink and guided him closer, so that he stood with her knees on either side of his hips. He wasn't close enough, apparently, because she casually wrapped her legs around the backs of his thighs, heels pressing into him, and nudged him closer before releasing him and cleaning off the flecks of blood on his face and neck, getting it out of his hair. When she was done she smiled a gentle smile at him, running a hand through his hair, making sure the blood was out, and he found himself leaning into the touch again. She dropped the rag in the sink.

"Why don't you tell me where you are?"

It was a difficult question to answer. He was a hundred places at once, reliving so many assassinations. His eyebrows pinched together and he bit down hard on his lower lip.

"Hey," Mo said, gently tapping her finger against his lip. "Relax, you're gonna bite clean through."

He released his lip. "I'm in the kitchen," he said slowly, jerking his head, trying to clear the images, the sounds, the smells from the past.

"That's right," she said, hand on his arm, rubbing gently, and he focused on the sensation, cleared his head a little. Finally, he nodded shakily and she smiled; it was then that he realized she was still holding on to his metal hand, fingers laced together. She gave it a squeeze, patted his chest, and hopped off the counter. "Good job," she rasped. She eyed the two bowls on the counter. "I take it you want some cereal, too?"

Just like that, like everything was okay. He nodded jerkily and she reached out, tugging at his shirt a little. "Why don't you get changed? I'll meet you in the living room."

* * *

Once he'd agreed and headed to his room, she put the bowls in the sink, rinsed off the blood, and grabbed two new, clean ones. She poured the cereal and headed into the living room, sitting on the sofa and placing the bowls on the table. She sat, then moved to the side, realizing she'd sat on _something_. She tugged it out from beneath her and stared at it.

It was her jacket.

It was such a small thing, so inconsequential, and yet she just stared at it, lips parted, emotional.

"I went back." Bucky's voice came from behind her and she turned, still seated. "To check on the other two. They were gone, but I found that. Figured you'd want it back."

He hadn't put on his shirt yet, and she watched as he tugged it over his head; a thin black tank top that showed off his shoulder, where the metal connected to ragged flesh. He came around to sit next to her.

"Thank you." She handed him a bowl. He took a bite. She started laughing, and soon the laughter was absurd, and she was doubled over, her face in her jacket. She knew what had happened, she knew that he'd killed the man; it was written all over his face. And yet here he sat, bowl of cereal balanced in his cybernetic arm.

"What?" he asked, and she turned to him, smile in place as she got the laughter under the control. She stared at him for a moment, almost wondrously, and scooted closer so that she leaned against him affectionately.

"Nothing," she said, bumping his shoulder with her forehead. "I'm just glad you're okay. I was worried."

"You shouldn't worry about me."

"I'll always worry about you," she said gently, reaching for her cereal. "But you're fine?"

He breathed out a big sigh, shaking his head.

"I killed him," he said abruptly. "I beat him, and then I slit his throat."

Mo just nodded. "I know."

His eyes flashed. "That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I just—I don't know," he said, and his tone, his posture, everything was rigid and frustrated. "He didn't need to die. I don't know why I did it, I just—_I don't know_."

"He threatened us," Mo said. "He fought you, didn't he?"

"He tried," Bucky choked, and Mo took his cereal and set it aside. He passed a hand over his face. "God, he tried, but he couldn't—he pointed a gun at me and I—I lost it, and I—"

"Alright," she sighed, setting her bowl beside his. She stood and sat on the table so that she was across from him. She pulled the table closer so that their knees touched. He was distraught, slouched over, elbows on his knees. He held his bruised, bloody knuckles up for her to see, held them up like a testament to the wrong he had done. She took his hand in hers and covered it with her other one, gently. "He'd have shot you. They shot Olivia."

"He was a civilian," Bucky said roughly. "Every time I think I'm getting better—"

"It takes time."

"_I killed someone,"_ he snapped, his eyes cold, flashing, and he took a deep breath. "I lost it. I became _him_." She was shaking her head. He looked up at her and his face was a blank mask and her throat tightened. He looked so lost. "I shouldn't be free," he said, giving a tight little smile. "I should be locked up."

"That's not true," she told him, and he laughed a cold, dead laugh. "Look at me," she insisted, and after some hesitation he did, and she saw that his eyes were scared.

"All I know how to do is destroy," he said. "I can't do anything else."

For a moment, she didn't say anything. She held his hand, gently running her fingers over the skin, and then she raised it to her lips and kissed the knuckles gently. He released a breath.

"Maybe he didn't need to die," she said, lifting her eyes from his hand. "Maybe you made a mistake. But if he pointed a gun at you, _he would have killed you_. And I'd rather he be dead than you, any day. You don't destroy—not anymore. You protect. That's what you were doing tonight. You were protecting us. Do you understand?"

The look on his face made it clear that he wanted to reject her words. He started shaking his head, but she caught his face with one hand. "We needed you," she said. "You're the strongest of us all; we all know it. You can do the things no one else can do, and it's a great burden, and it'll drag you down if you let it, so you need to be strong. And if you can't be strong, I'll be strong for you. Okay?" He licked his lips and raised his eyes to meet hers, nodding slowly.

"Did anyone see you?"

"No," he said. "No one will know."

"Okay," she sighed, pulling away. He ran his steel hand through his hair and leaned back into the couch. She got up and sat next to him, handing him a bowl, unsure if it was his or hers but not caring either way. She folded her legs beneath her and they ate in silence for a while before he spoke.

"Olivia?"

"She's fine," Mo said with a smile. "Sleeping. Steve's with her."

"You?"

She turned her head to look at him, nodding slowly. "I'm good," she said earnestly. "I'll be okay." She thought of that moment, that split second when she hadn't known who had been shot, the fear that it had been him, the horror that it had been tiny Olivia, the realization that no matter who had been shot, there was no winning. She swallowed convulsively and dragged herself back, out of these thoughts, and looked at him steadily for a long time and found him looking back.

"That's my shirt," he finally said.

"_Was_ your shirt," she said, grinning. "It's mine now. Looks better on me anyway."

He laughed gently. "Can't argue with that."

"Have you talked to Steve?"

"Not yet," he said. "I—wanted to see you. First." She nodded, and it was quiet for a moment before he went on. She found him looking at her again. "I'm glad you're back," he said.

"I'm happy to be back," she said, her voice a little rough. He took another bite of cereal, finished it off, and stood.

"I should talk to Steve," he said, and she took his bowl. "You can sleep in my room, if you want."

"Thanks," she said, "but I don't think I'm gonna sleep much tonight. I can _feel_ the nightmares." He laughed dryly.

"Noted," he said, "but I'm not letting you sleep on the couch."

* * *

Bucky wandered in around an hour later. Mo looked up and greeted him; she'd settled in and made herself comfortable on his bed and was leafing absently through a magazine, lost in her own head. She looked up at him as he sat down on the edge of the bed. She patted the spot next to her, urging him to get comfortable, and he sat beside her, stretched back, one arm behind his head.

"You did well today," he said. "I hadn't told you that, but you did."

She smiled and stretched out beside him, then rolled over on her side to face him. "Think we're safe?"

"Sam says so far, so good," he said. "I offered to relieve him, but…"

"You need your rest," she said. "He knows that."

He was quiet. Then: "I'm afraid to sleep."

"Why?"

He met her eyes. "After what I did—what if I wake up and I'm not me?"

She studied him for a moment. "I'm not worried. But if you are…Then let's stay up," she said. "I don't want to sleep, either."

He grinned. "Always so full of ideas." She wrinkled her nose at him. "Alright, sweet'eart," he said, sitting up, "what's your plan?" She smiled and shrugged. "Tell me about your tattoo," he said suddenly. "What is it?"

It was a series of numbers, with roman numerals at the bottom.

"They're military ID numbers," she said softly. She rolled over so he could see the tattoo, felt his finger on her skin, tracing over them. "All the guys who died that day. My friends. The numbers at the bottom is the date."

He stroked a knuckle over the tattoo and her skin broke out in goosebumps.

"I've always wondered," he said. "Is that your only one?"

"Yeah," she said as he removed his hand and she rolled back over to face him. Then she grinned. "You?"

"No," he laughed, "no tattoos."

"Tell me something," she said after a while.

"Anything, doll."

"Tell me more about the past," she said, "life in the 40s—if you're comfortable. I want to know."

"Oh, boy," he said, blowing out a breath. "Everything was different then."

He told her about his friendship with Steve, about the way Steve was constantly getting into trouble. "People seem to think I was the bad one," he said, "and that Steve was the good boy. This ain't so. I never did a damned thing wrong in my life till that punk started breakin' the rules." He told her about Coney Island, he told her about dancing and how much he loved it, and he told her about when the war came, about how Steve had tried and tried to enlist hand had been denied. She'd learned about this, of course, but it was different hearing it from the source. He told her about how he hadn't expected to see Steve again once he'd been captured, and about how Steve had saved him. He told her about the war itself, the brutality, the way it had changed him, the things he had seen.

And then she told him about _her_ war; the things she had done, the lives she had taken, the ones she had tried to save to make up for it. She told him about Sam, and how he had saved her. She told him about school, during their year apart, about how she hadn't stopped thinking about them. He said he'd thought about her, too. He told her about graduation, and how no one had been there for her, and he told her that he knew she had graduated and he had been so proud, because it was something he hadn't done and he'd wanted to call so badly, but couldn't. They talked about the trial, and how it had been for everyone involved.

Eventually, they did talk themselves to sleep, and they slept through the night beside each other. There were no nightmares.

**AN: Review, please! ****Let me know how you feel about the Bucky/Mo interaction!**** I've gotten so many, let's keep those numbers UP! I hope the Mo/Bucky shippers enjoyed this one… next will have some Steve/Olivia!**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: FYI: Olivia has a concussion, and one of the side effects of that is being unusually emotional, which you'll see a bit… enjoy! We also learn a lot about Olivia!**

She looked so small in his bed, her skin pale, nearly translucent, dark bruises having spread over the bridge of her nose and beneath her eyes, leaving them shadowed. She looked nearly dead, and the logical part of his brain knew that this wasn't so, that she'd been very fortunate. Mo said she'd lost some blood and would probably sleep for a while, that she may or may not have a concussion and may or may not remember what had happened, but she'd said Olivia would be fine. Mo had cleaned her up well, and she looked considerably further from death than she had before, with blood smeared on her face. Her cheekbone was swollen and cut, and there was a cut on her lip, but her chest rose and fell steadily.

Mo had ordered Steve out of the room briefly, and when he had been allowed to return, he'd found that Mo had wrestled Olivia out of her dirty clothes and had taken it upon herself to steal one of Steve's shirts to put Olivia in and had tucked her beneath the covers. He was alone with her now, watching over her, and Mo had laughed at him, gently, with understanding, reminding him that he had _nothing_ to worry about. She'd passed by him, pausing briefly to ruffle his hair and give him a comforting squeeze around the shoulders before she had left him.

He sat beside the bed in silence, listening to the sound of her breathing. He clenched his jaw and scrubbed his hands over his face, allowing himself to succumb to the guilt now that he was alone. This, he thought, was _exactly_ why he hadn't wanted anyone else involved. He hadn't known who those people were; he didn't know their motives, and that made them dangerous, and someone completely uninvolved had gotten hurt. Sure, she'd been fortunate this time, but next time? What about then they were targeted again, and this time by someone more deadly?

He felt awful, now, for the way he had thought of her before and for how he had treated her. He'd thought her selfish, manipulative; he knew that he had treated her poorly. And yet, in spite of all that, she'd stepped in front of him when the gun had come out, and the guilt nearly overwhelmed him. She'd had no way of knowing she'd be okay—she'd just done it. Those weren't the acts of someone who was selfish, and it changed everything. She wasn't the woman he thought she was.

The door opened and he looked up. Bucky stood in the doorway, having changed into a more relaxed outfit. His eyes were hesitant, looking Steve up and down. Steve didn't even have to say anything. Bucky just knew.

"It's not your fault," Bucky said, stepping inside and pulling up a chair to sit beside Steve. He gripped Steve's shoulder with his cybernetic arm and shook him a little, forcing Steve to look at him. "Hey," Bucky said firmly. "Understand?"

"Sure, Buck," Steve said. "I know."

"She doin' okay?"

"Yeah, she's been out since we got her here," Steve said. He stared at Olivia again and his breath hitched for a second and he let out a breathy, strangled laugh. "She—she took a bullet for me." Steve looked helplessly at his friend, gesturing at the tiny woman. "Look at her, Buck."

He watched as Bucky looked, a slight smirk curling his lips. "Tough kid," Bucky said thoughtfully. "You know, she reminds me of you."

Steve snorted. "We're nothing alike."

Bucky gave him a look. "Tiny thing," Bucky started, "thinks she's a lot bigger and stronger than she is. Hot-headed. Kind of a punk. Stubborn. Always the first to jump into a fight. Bark's a _lot_ worse than her bite." By this point, Steve was smiling softly. "First one to put her life on the line to protect someone else… I think, maybe if she'd have been around back before all of this, before the war, before the serum… you'd have been head over heels for a girl like her. Couple'a troublemakers."

"She didn't deserve this," Steve said, shaking his head.

"She knew what she was getting into," Bucky reasoned. "She saw that gun come out, and I saw it happen, bud: she didn't even think about it. She stepped in front of you. That was _her_ choice. Don't take that from her. Don't put that on yourself."

Steve was still shaking his head, but he allowed himself to take some comfort in Bucky's words. "You're starting to sound like Mo," Steve joked, and Bucky shrugged.

"Might'a learned a thing or two."

Steve nodded slowly and took a breath, squaring his shoulders. "Did you find the man?" Bucky swallowed; Steve saw the movement in his throat, saw the way Bucky's eyes darkened, his mouth tightened. He nodded. "Did you learn anything?"

Bucky shook his head and Steve closed his eyes. "He wouldn't talk."

Steve scanned his friend, looking for wounds, and found that he was in good condition. He nodded to himself. "That's alright," he said. "We—we'll figure it out. People like this _want_ to be known."

Bucky nodded, looking suddenly edgy, skittish. Steve took a breath.

"What happened out there?"

"Nothin'," Bucky said evasively. Steve stared him down for a moment and Bucky squirmed.

"You can tell me," Steve urged, and Bucky met his eyes. His were dark, conflicted, nearly wild.

"He pulled a gun," Bucky explained. "It—it triggered something, and I lost it, and I—I tried, but—"

"You became the Soldier?" Bucky nodded jerkily. "And the man… he's dead?" Another nod. Steve sighed. Bucky's jaw clenched and unclenched spastically, and he avoided Steve's gaze, staring at his hands.

"Are you okay?"

Bucky looked up at him, looking startled.

"You're not—?"

"Mad? Disappointed?" Steve met his eyes. "Dunno. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. I don't know anymore. All I know is I'm glad you're okay—I'm glad we're all okay, and if you killed him, it—it just makes me feel—better."

There was a silence. Steve laughed and put his face in his hands.

"I know that's wrong," Steve said, still hunched over. "But I—I just don't know anymore. Right and wrong. But you're okay, and you're still _you_, and that's all that matters right now, okay, bud?" By the time he finished, he was looking at Bucky again, who was nodding slowly, lips slightly parted.

"I'm losing it," Steve said suddenly, helplessly, looking desperately at Bucky. "I don't know how to stop it and all I can think about is that _she got shot_ because of me, and all of this is because of me and now she's paying for it—" He stopped abruptly, with a gasp, feeling wild. Bucky's eyes were steady, his jaw set. "I'm drowning," Steve finally said, his throat tight with emotion. "I'm drowning, Buck."

"What can I do?" Bucky asked, and Steve smiled, shaking his head.

"Keep this between us," Steve said. "I don't need anyone else worried."

"They're not blind, Steve," Bucky said. Steve's heart was pounding. "I know you think you don't need help, but everyone can see you're cracking."

"Like I said," Steve murmured. "Keep this between us, okay?" Bucky looked conflicted. "I'll be okay," Steve said quickly, and Bucky rolled his eyes. Steve understood—he knew that Bucky knew he was lying. They knew each other too well.

"I've been through the ringer, pal," Bucky replied. "If you need to talk—whatever you're going through—you don't have to do it alone."

Their eyes held for a moment before Steve looked away. He pinched the bridge of his nose and heard Bucky sigh, clearly frustrated, but grateful that his oldest friend knew when and when not to push. They both knew now wasn't the time, but it felt good to let someone in, even just the slightest bit, even if it frightened him more than he cared to admit. He took to looking at Olivia again, and saw Bucky smile out of the corner of his eye.

"You're like a worried mother," Bucky teased, and Steve rolled his eyes. "She'll be fine, Steve."

"_I know, I know_," Steve said in exasperation.

"Do you want me to stay?" Bucky asked.

"Nah," Steve said, "I'll be alright."

Bucky blew out a breath and stood, thumping Steve's shoulder. Steve looked up at him.

"I'm gonna go check with Sam," Bucky said. "Holler if you need anything."

Steve just nodded and Bucky shoved him, heading out and closing the door behind him. With a heavy sigh, Steve scooted closer to the bed and folded his arms on the mattress beside Olivia, resting his forehead on his arms, listening intently to her steady breathing.

* * *

Olivia woke with a start. She moaned, blinked open her eyes, didn't recognize her surroundings, and immediately thought she had been kidnapped. She gasped, panicked, and sat up, yelping against the pain in her side—and in her _face_. She cried out, covering her face with her hands, confused, scared. There was someone beside her and, in a panic, she lashed out at them, only to realize a moment later that the person was Steve, and he'd caught her wrist gently in his hand.

"Settle down," he urged gently. "Don't hurt yourself."

She snatched her hand back and curled forward slightly, her mouth open, eyes scrunched up against the pain in her nose that radiated outward through her entire face. Her head ached. Her side screamed in pain.

"I—what happened?" she demanded, her voice unsteady, faint. She kicked the covers off of her body, her legs weak, and then noticed that she wasn't wearing her pants and that instead she was wearing a gigantic shirt. She yanked it up, showing off her underwear (they were cute, thankfully), to reveal the bandage at her waist. She tore it off and looked at the stitches, her head swimming.

"Calm down," Steve urged. "You've been shot."

She stared at him for a moment. "I've been shot," she repeated, numbly, staring at him. He nodded slowly. And then it clicked. Her eyes widened. "_I've been shot!"_ she cried, prodding the wound, flinching at the pain. "My face—"

Steve was standing now, one knee braced on the bed, his hands on her arms, holding her still, hovering over her. She stared up at him, breathing heavily.

"You took a beating," he said, and her heart pounded.

"Let me see," she demanded, squirming away and climbing out of bed.

"You need to rest," Steve said, and she ignored him, staggering on weak legs, her head overcome with splitting pain. She threw an arm out as her legs shook, one hand on the bed, the other knotted in his shirt, against his chest. Determinedly, she hobbled toward the mirror, dragging him along behind her for support until she reached it. She looked at herself and gasped, the sound a small, startled squeak. She released him, covering her mouth with his hands, her eyes huge.

"Oh," she said, staring at herself, at the dark bruises beneath her eyes, at the little cuts, the split lip. "Oh, _no_, this is a disaster!" She spun to face him. "We have another benefit in a week, it's so important, do you know how much makeup it's going to take to cover this up?"

Steve stared at her, lips slightly parted, looking at her with something like disbelief. She turned away from him, stumbling again, leaning against the nightstand. "My phone," she said, "where's my phone? How long have I been out?"

"Olivia," he said firmly, and she looked up at him. Her face—the pain—her mouth trembled and she covered it with her hands again. She was overwhelmed, suddenly, with a great deal of fear, and it brought her to her knees. She took a gasp of air, her knees hitting the ground, her body going cold with fear. She felt her eyes well up with tears that threatened to spill over and she covered her face, hunching over, not entirely sure _why_ she was so emotional.

"Olivia," Steve said again, gently, and this time his voice was different, gentle in a way she had never heard it before. She took a little breath and peaked out from between her fingers and found that he'd stooped down a little and offered her his hand. She hesitated and then took it, allowing him to help her to her feet and then help her back into the bed.

"Where am I?" she asked, sitting on top of the covers, trying to position herself in such a way that her side didn't hurt quite as badly.

"Our apartment," Steve said. "My room."

She looked around. This was somewhere she'd never expected to be. His room was functional, not revealing much about who he was. She swallowed and he handed her some water, which she drank, then licked the cut at her lower lip. She sniffed again, lifting the back of her hand to her nose, and it came away red.

"Crap," she said, and Steve grabbed a clean cloth and motioned her closer. Overwhelmed by the situation, she obeyed. He pinched her nose gently—his hand seemed bigger than her face—and dabbed at the blood.

"How do you feel?" he asked as he wiped at the blood. She winced slightly at the touch, grimacing in a way that opened the cut at her lip. At the taste of blood in her mouth she let out a strangled little laugh.

"Great," she said. "You should see the other guy."

He smiled a little, tensely, wetting the cloth with some water and dabbing it at her lip, which was swollen. She flinched slightly.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's fine," she murmured. He drew the cloth away. "Thanks."

He stared at her for a moment and she locked eyes with him, thanking god she'd decided to wear her contacts tonight.

"What?" she finally asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He just shook his head. "I don't think you should be working with us anymore," he said, and she blinked. "After tonight—"

"Are you firing me?"

"I'm not—"

"No, you're not. Tony's the only one who can fire me. I know what you're going to say, Steve, and I'm not going to let some idiot with a gun scare me off—"

"That idiot with a gun shot you," Steve pointed out. "You were stalked and you were targeted to get to us."

She shrugged. She was scared, but she wouldn't let him know that. "I'll be okay." He was shaking his head again. "I'm allowed to make my own choices, Captain," she said. His fist clenched.

"I'm going to talk to Tony," he said darkly.

She narrowed her eyes. "So help me—"

"Come on, Olivia," he said, exasperated. "You don't deserve this."

"You think I didn't know the risks that came along with helping you out?" She demanded, puffing up defensively. Her side flared up. "You think—"

"_Look at yourself,_" he said. "That's on me. I'm not letting anyone else get hurt because of me!"

She made a frustrated, wordless, _gahhh!_ noise, resisting the urge to strangle him. At the sound, his mouth twitched. "Never mind," he said. "We don't have to talk about this now."

"Or, you know, _ever_," she said, glaring, and they sized each other up before he sighed and let it go. It was quiet for a while before he spoke, his voice hesitant, tentative.

"I'm sorry," he said, "about the way I've treated you in the past. I was wrong about you."

"And to think all I had to do was get shot to prove it," she sighed, and his eyes darkened before she smiled, splitting her lip. "That was a joke, Captain—ow, _shit_."

She reached for the cloth, but he dabbed it against her mouth again, silencing her, smirking a little as she rolled her eyes at him.

"Can I speak?" he asked, and she just gave him a look. "As I was saying—I was wrong about you, Olivia Tate. And I'm sorry." She shrugged and after some hesitation, he went on. "Can I ask _why_ you thought it was a good idea to try and shield a man who's probably three times your size?"

At this, she became uncomfortable. She sucked on her lower lip as he removed the cloth. "Instinct?" she tried.

"I don't know many people whose first instinct is to step in _front_ of a gun," he pointed out. She played with the hem of his shirt. It was _gigantic_ on her, and fit her like a baggy dress. She twisted it around and around before she spoke, looking up into his eyes again. How were anyone's eyes so _blue_?

"My grandpa," she started, "he always taught me that if someone needed protecting, it was my job to protect them, because who else would? Always do the right thing, he would say. Protect what's important. Fight for what's yours. And… well, you—you're important. And you needed protecting. Maybe it's stupid."

* * *

"I'm not that important, Olivia," Steve said gently, "I'm not worth your life." She smiled a little. "Your grandpa sounds like quite a man; it's not stupid. Just dangerous."

"He is," she said. "And you _are_ important. I was just—I was just doing the right thing."

"Not at the cost of your own life," he urged, and she gave him the single-eyebrow-raised look that used to always irritate him. Now, he was glad she had enough spunk to still try and use it on him.

"You're one to talk," she said, "from what my grandpa tells me, the stories I grew up with, you were always the _first_ to step in front of a gun."

"He told you stories?"

She looked away. "Yeah," she said slowly. "Growing up, you—well, my grandpa raised me a lot. I was always a small kid, and I got picked on a lot because I was always moving, always the new kid. I had an attitude."

"What?" he asked, feigning surprise. "Not _you."_

"I know, weird," she said with a little smile. "But my grandpa—he would always tell me stories about the man who got beat up, and who was sick, and who only wanted to do good. And then that man got a chance, and he became a great man—he always was a great man, just now people could see it. He always told me to remember that, to be strong like that soldier, to stand up for people who needed it, to do the right thing even if everyone else said I was wrong, even if it was hard. He always said some things are worth the risk, and—I don't know why I'm telling you this."

Her cheeks were flushed, and he was silent for a few moments. Suddenly, Olivia Tate began to make sense. It explained why she had always been so adamant about representing them, even when he felt that it was pointless. She was _risking_ her career to help him, not making her career—all because she felt it was the right thing to do. He'd been such an idiot, thinking it was for the _money_. Money had nothing to do with it. It also explained why she was so headstrong, so aggressive, why she never took no for an answer.

Maybe Bucky was right. Maybe she was a lot like him.

"Anyways," she went on, "I always held onto that, I guess."

"So you thought you could shield me," he said with a little laugh.

"Worked, didn't it?" she asked, gesturing to her side. Her voice grew gentle. "Like I said. You're important, Steve. Even if you don't want to believe it."

"I'm not worth taking a bullet for," he said gently, looking into her eyes. "Olivia, I appreciate it—I'm touched, honestly, but if anything happened to you because of me—"

"It'd be my fault, not yours," she said. "Stop trying to take on the weight of the world. It'll crush you."

They looked at each other, and for the first time Steve felt like he was really seeing her for who she was. He scrubbed a hand over his face, through his hair, and then looked at her. She tilted her head curiously to one side.

"Your grandfather," Steve said slowly, thoughtfully. "Did he fight in the war?"

"He did," she said, and he nodded slowly.

"His unit—?"

"Yeah," she said softly. " You got it. The 107th."

**AN: So, this was fun! Now Olivia and Steve can move forward in new ways. What do you guys think? **

**Also, I've been getting some requests in reviews and in messages, people asking about creating someone for Sam. How do you feel about that? I know the perfect place to introduce her, if you wanted that, and she wouldn't play quite as big a role as these two (unless you wanted her to!) but it could be another dynamic to explore if that's what you want! But I don't want to introduce someone new if you guys are happy with how it is now and don't want too much. But I'm open to it!**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Some cute Bucky/Mo (Mucky, as someone said) and Steve/Olivia (What would you call them?) moments in this one! I enjoyed writing them! We get a look inside Steve's head…**

The nightmare went about the same as it always did. Steve was fighting the Winter Soldier, and he had gained the upper hand. He'd gotten his arm around the Winter Soldier's throat and he was choking him. The Soldier screamed and choked and struggled, clawed at Steve's arms and face, but Steve held tight. This was it. It was almost over.

Eventually, the Soldier's struggles grew weaker, and finally he went limp. Steve, sore, bloody, and panting, wiped blood and sweat from his brow and collapsed backwards, releasing the soldier's body. Gasping for air, he sat up. People were still running and screaming; they didn't seem to realize the threat had been eliminated. Steve spit out blood and dragged himself a little closer to the Soldier's body; he was nearly dead himself, they were so evenly matched. Everything hurt.

He rolled the Soldier's body over and stared down into the mask, seeing his own face reflected back at him. He needed to know who was beneath that mask. With a sense of growing dread, he reached for the mask and ripped it off, and, just like always, he saw Bucky's face, blue eyes open, lips parted, blank. He reeled backward as the realization sunk in and he jerked his hand away.

_Bucky._

What had he done?

He began to panic and he was overwhelmed with horror, with grief, and he started to scream—

The feeling of someone's hand on his head startled him awake and, waking still in that state of terror, he reacted. He caught the arm and twisted it, and there was a sharp cry of pain, a feminine sound, and it took him a few moments to come back to himself, for him to realize that it was just a dream. The bedside lamp was on and he was able to take in the scene; he'd caught Olivia's arm and had maneuvered her around, so now she was face down on the mattress, one arm angled sharply behind her.

He released her instantly with a gasp and she rolled over with a groan. He staggered back; he was drenched with sweat, shivering. Olivia sat up, wincing and rotating her shoulder, glaring up at him, her dark eyes shadowy in the dim lighting. She looked very frightening for a moment, warped, her pale skin ghostly, her large dark eyes shadowed, bottomless, the light casting shadows in the hollows of her throat, in her cheeks. Her big black eyes looked straight at him and a slow smile curled her mouth. He blinked and scrubbed a hand over his face, and when he looked at her again she was bloody—

"Captain—_Steve_—" He was gasping. "Come back," she was saying. "Come on—_Moriah!"_

"No," Steve gasped. Everything seemed to click into place. His head was spinning and Olivia was on her knees on the bed in front of him, her hands on his face. She looked normal but bruised, frightened. "I'm okay," he insisted, removing her hands from his face. She rotated her shoulder again, eyes bright with reproach.

"Explanation?"

He hadn't realized he was standing, but he sat back in the chair where he'd fallen asleep, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Nightmare," he grunted weakly, rubbing his eyes. She was quiet for a few moments, as though waiting for him to go on.

"That happen a lot?"

"What?" Steve looked up at her and she raised an eyebrow.

"You know, the noises, the twitching, attacking people…? That's just a regular nightmare for you?"

He gave a tense smile. "Not normally anyone around for me to attack. That's a first."

He tried to calm himself down. Again, Olivia was silent, and when he finally looked at her he saw that she was looking off into the distance, her expression thoughtful. She must have sensed him looking at her, because a moment later she blinked and looked at him, and their eyes locked. He wasn't sure what it was, but looking into her eyes, he suddenly felt very cold, chilled, nervous. No one else knew he had these nightmares; he'd kept it quiet, hadn't let anyone in. He should have known better than to spend the night so close to someone else.

"Are you… okay?" Olivia asked slowly, pushing her rumpled silver hair out of her face. He nodded stiffly, clenching his jaw. "You wanna talk about it?"

Again, his eyes cut to her and he laughed softly. "I'm alright."

"You said Bucky's name," she said slowly, but he was smart, he could see it in her eyes. "Should I go get him?"

"_No_," he said insistently. "Let's keep this between us."

"Oh, man," she said, grinning a little and shaking her head, her eyes looking him up and down. "_You_ are losing it."

"I said I was fine," he said, but it sounded false even to his own ears. She shook out the arm he had twisted, rubbing it with her free hand. He glanced away from her and stared at the floor, closing his eyes after a moment. He heard her shift on the bed and opened one eye to find her crawling across the bed toward him, her face determined. She stopped right in front of him, so that he had no choice but to look at her. Taking a deep breath, feeling embarrassed and cornered, he finally looked up at her, resting his elbows on his knees, tired. She was on her hands and knees, looking at him, before she settled down, knees folded beneath her.

"Alright," she said slowly. "I told you a while ago that I don't like to get personal with my clients. But I _did_ take a bullet for you today, so I think we've crossed that line." She hesitated, her eyes large and dark, more concerned than he'd seen her look. "I want you to listen to me. I _need_ you to take care of yourself, Steve. You're under a huge amount of pressure, and I know that you've been through hell and I know that what happened earlier tonight didn't make anything any better. I need you to be honest with me. Do you want me to dial it back, ease up, give you some time to yourself?"

He was already shaking his head. "I—I can't do that," he said. "I need to stay busy. I'm fine. It's just the quiet that gets me—I need to keep going."

She was still watching him in that way that was almost eerie. "Why don't you tell me about the nightmare?" He was shaking his head. "Look, I know I don't know anything about this, but maybe it'll help. Or I can just call Mo, I'm sure she'd be more than happy to therapize you."

"Mo knows when not to push," he pointed out, and she just shrugged.

"I think you're the kind of man who needs to be pushed."

Their eyes held for a long time, a stand off, a challenge. Finally, he buckled: "I killed Bucky." She didn't even blink, just waited for him to go on. He shook his head. "In the dream, I—I was fighting the Soldier, and I killed him, and I removed the mask and it was Bucky."

"Bucky's okay, Steve," she was saying, but he was shaking his head. "You saved him."

"It's this thought that I have," Steve said, "_What if?_ Once I found out who he was, it changed everything. Before I knew, all I wanted to do was stop him. I didn't want to save him. I didn't think he could be saved." His chest was tight, emotion clawing, and he closed his eyes and pressed his palms against them. He heard Olivia blow out a small breath. "It's always the same," he rasped. "Always the same dream, and I can't—" He cut himself off, sat up and rested his elbows on the bed. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

"You keep pushing people away, Captain," she murmured. He put his head down, resting it on his arm on the bed. "You don't have to get through this alone."

"I'll be fine. I'll be fine." He felt her fingertips brush his hair, the motion gentle, tentative. He tensed at first, not used to physical comfort, but then sighed and allowed it, focusing on the sensation of someone's fingers in his hair. He couldn't remember how long it had been since anyone had done something like this before. Sure, Mo was affectionate and gave him occasional hugs and squeezes, but this was different, soft and comforting, and as he allowed it to go on, she continued the gesture, petting the back of his head.

"Go to sleep," she said, her own voice thick and raspy, on the verge of sleep. "I think you need it."

"It's not that simple," he said, and she gave a soft little laugh. It had been so long since he'd gotten a good night's sleep, uninterrupted. She hushed him, a soothing noise, tugging gently on his hair in a way that was oddly soothing. He felt his eyelids growing heavy.

* * *

The motions of gently playing with his hair, which was surprisingly soft, had lulled her as well. As soon as he was sleeping, his breath even, Olivia pulled her hand away and tucked herself beneath the covers. She was surprised she'd ever fallen asleep in the first place, and even more surprised that she hadn't suffered any nightmares. She hadn't been scared like this in a long time.

When she woke again, it was only a couple of hours later, around six in the morning. Steve, to her surprise, was still asleep, his head still resting on his arm like he hadn't moved an inch, and maybe he hadn't. Olivia thought back to their conversation and knew that she had to tell Mo—Mo was an expert on this sort of thing, and Olivia knew nothing. Sure, she could sit and listen, but as far as solutions were concerned, she was useless.

Knowing she wouldn't be getting anymore sleep, she climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb Steve. She winced at the pain in her side, but she felt surprisingly well aside from the constant pounding in her head. Mo had said something about a concussion. Silently, she opened and closed the door, heading out into the hall. She didn't know much about the layout of the apartment that the three of them shared. She stood quietly on the other side of the door, dressed only in Steve's shirt, and looked around. She headed down the hall and found another door, hesitated, and knocked, listening intently. She knocked again, not too loud for fear of waking Steve, and when there was still no reply she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

There was a bed to her left and she found Mo in the bed, blankets pushed away, resting on her side so that her shiny gunmetal-colored leg was on top, folded so that it was wedged between another pair of legs. Olivia's heart stopped as she took it in, realizing that the other person was none other than Bucky, who was resting on his side so that he faced Mo. His hand, a brighter, shinier metal than Mo's, rested gently on her prosthetic leg.

She couldn't look away. Somehow, it was such a strange sight to see, and she couldn't tear her eyes away. It was obvious that nothing had transpired between them; they were both fully clothed, and no other parts of their bodies were touching. It was different, seeing them this way; she only ever knew them when they were in front of other people, awake, of course, but this was something different. Mo, who was almost always smiling, or sarcastic, Mo, who had been a total badass earlier defending Olivia, _Mo_, who was delicate and human and broken, was sharing a bed with who was perhaps history's greatest assassin. And then there was that assassin, who was tall and large and quiet and similarly broken, who was sarcastic and surprisingly funny, was folded on his side beside this woman who had, according to him and everyone else, somehow helped him save himself from the darkness.

She remembered teasing Mo earlier (had it really only been a few hours ago?) about there being something between her and Bucky, but it didn't really hit her until now, looking at them there. She started slightly as there was an unpleasant screeching sound, the sound of metal scraping against metal as Bucky's steel fingers curled against her steel thigh; both of them stirred and mumbled at the sound, and Olivia knew she had to leave, feeling like she was intruding.

"C'mere," she heard Bucky say, in a tone she'd never heard before; warm, sleepy and mumbley, affectionate. She froze and turned back toward the bed, only to realize he hadn't been speaking to her. His eyes were still closed and he was still half asleep, and she'd turned in time to see (and hear) his hand against Mo's thigh, sliding against it. Mo mumbled something that earned a chuckle from him and tucked herself closer, and Olivia knew it was time to leave.

She closed the door behind her, flushed and embarrassed and unsure why. She hadn't been meant to see what she'd seen; she wouldn't bring it up. She could talk to Mo later. She headed back down the hall, toward the kitchen, wondering where Sam was. She scratched at her stitches, which were sore and itchy, and gently touched her sore face. Unsure of what else to do in a home that wasn't hers, she started to make coffee, keeping an eye on the time; they had a meeting with Tony soon.

The mugs, as it turned out, were stupidly high and on the top shelf at that. With a sigh, she struggled to drag a chair quietly across the floor and climbed it, then climbed up on the countertop, barefoot, to get the mugs down from the shelf.

"You know, you could have just woken me."

Olivia gasped and spun around, clutching the mugs to her chest, and found Steve standing behind the chair, wearing socks, which explained his silent approach. Her heart hammered in her chest and she glared at him, embarrassed, standing in just his t-shirt, on top of a counter, clutching mugs.

"Here," Steve said, reaching for the mugs. She handed them down and he set them aside, then reached for her. She raised an eyebrow at him.

"I can get down myself," she said.

"I know you can," he said, "I'm just offering. I'd imagine you're still a little sore."

She considered and then nodded. He took a step closer and she crouched down a little; he caught her beneath her arms and hoisted her down, setting her gently on her feet.

"Thanks," she said, turning away from him.

"Don't mention it," he replied. "So, about last night… that'll stay between us, right?"

"Of course it will, Captain Rogers," she said coolly, turning to face him. He bobbed his head.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," she said, picking up a mug and toying with it a little. "A little sore, but not as bad as I'd imagined being shot would feel."

At this, he grinned a little. "You're lucky," he said. "What d'you say we try not to press that luck?"

"Good idea," she said.

"Ah," said another voice, and Olivia looked up and Steve turned. "Thought I smelled coffee." It was Bucky. Olivia and Steve exchanged a glance and Bucky stared at them for a moment. "Weird," he said suspiciously, then shrugged and looked at Olivia. "How ya feeling, kid?"

"Fine," she said. "I've had better mornings, but fine."

Bucky winked at her. "She's a trooper."

"I'll say," Steve said. "I'll go get Sam."

"He's been out all night?" Bucky asked. "I told him I'd cover for him."

"He probably knows you could use the rest," Steve said. "Wouldn't let me cover, either."

As Steve left, Mo came in, wearing the basketball shorts, button-up, and one sock. Her hair was rumpled and she ran her hands through it. At the sight of her, Bucky broke into a wide smile that he ducked his head to conceal, and Olivia bit her lip to keep from smiling at the sight of it.

"Mornin', sunshine," Bucky said, and Mo came up behind him and ran her hand over his lower back, a subtle, affectionate gesture. She scraped her nails against his side and he flinched, chuckling, and Mo looked at Olivia.

"Good to see you up and at 'em," she said.

"I'm fine," Olivia said. "Coffee?"

They both nodded, and she got some from Steve as well, who returned with Sam. At the sight of him, Mo crossed the room and hugged him. He looked exhausted.

"We're fine," he told the group. "Nothing suspicious." Olivia handed him a mug of coffee and he took a drink, groaning. "_Finally,_" he said, giving Mo a look. "Someone who can make a decent cup of coffee."

Mo glared as the others mumbled in agreement. "Shut up, all of you," she said. Sam ruffled her hair and she ducked away from him, but he caught her and wrestled her back, successfully messing up her hair.

"Alright," Olivia said, snagging everyone's attention. "We all need to get showered and ready. We have a meeting with Stark about a benefit coming up, and we need to inform him of what happened last night."

She tried to look commanding, authoritative, wearing nothing but Steve's shirt, but she was finding that maybe, just maybe, she didn't need the perfect outfit, perfect hair, perfect makeup to catch and command their respect. They were all looking at her just the same as they always did, and Steve had lost that cynical look.

"We've got two hours before the meeting," she said. "Get to it."

* * *

"_Ouch!"_ Olivia hissed, and Mo rolled her eyes.

"Don't be a baby," she murmured. Olivia was standing and Mo was on her knees in front of her, cleaning around the stitches in her side.

"Hurry," Olivia urged. "We have a meeting with Stark in—"

Mo stopped what she was doing and just looked up at Olivia, whose eyes widened and she sealed her lips.

"Thank you," Mo said, replacing the bandage with a clean one. "It's small, but you should take it easy for a few days, just so you don't pull the stitches."

"I'll keep that in mind," Olivia said absently, scrolling through her phone. Mo grabbed it. "Hey!" Mo just held it high above her head, out of Olivia's reach.

"Pay attention," Mo said seriously, and Olivia sighed. "As soon as you're better, I'm going to teach you a couple of things about self defense. For someone who talks a big game about kicking ass, you sure got your ass handed to you last night."

Olivia ducked her head, looking embarrassed. "I know self defense," she said. "I just froze."

"Well, I'll teach you not to freeze. We'll keep this between us. I haven't told the guys how you—_froze_."

They locked eyes. Olivia nodded and Mo handed her back her phone. "Thanks," Olivia mumbled, "for not telling them."

"Gotta have my girl's back," Mo said casually. "We don't need them worrying or adding any fuel to _that_ fire."

Mo stepped back and checked her reflection in the mirror. She and Olivia had changed back into their clothes from the night before. Olivia's bruises looked worse, which was to be expected; they would get worse before they got better. Mo watched her dab concealer on over the shadows beneath her eyes and over her nose, blending it, dabbing it on again. When she was done, she just looked tired, but not obviously bruised; her lips and nose, as well as her cheekbone, was still puffy and swollen, and there was no hiding the cuts.

"Well," Olivia said, fluffing her hair, glaring, and finally slicking it back into a high silver bun, "this is as good as it's gonna get."

"You look fine," Mo said, adjusting Bucky's button up over her jeans, tucking it in rather than tying it today. She followed Olivia's lead, bunning her hair. "We should get going, though," she went on, "don't want to be late."

There was a knock at the door. "Come in," Olivia said, and the door opened and Bucky poked his head in.

"Ready to go?" he said, his eyes lingering on Mo. She felt her face heat up slightly; she'd woken this morning curled against him, legs tangled together, much closer to him than she'd ever been before. He hadn't mentioned it or seemed uncomfortable, but she was a little embarrassed.

"Ready," Olivia said. "Um, thanks for the help last night, by the way."

He winked at them. "Sergeant Barnes, at your service," he said, bowing a little, smirking. "Steve's hailed a couple'a cabs, whenever you're ready. Mo, you're with Sam. Olivia, you're with Steve and me."

"We'll be right out," Olivia said, and Bucky ducked back out. Mo, face still warm, looked down at Olivia and sighed.

"Don't you say a word," Mo warned, and Olivia raised her eyebrows.

"Wasn't going to," Olivia said. "But, um, I'd like it if you could teach me some stuff. About flashbacks. Just in case."

Mo nodded, considering. "This about Bucky?"

"Yes," Olivia lied.

"Right," Mo said, narrowing her eyes. "Yeah, I'll teach you how to handle it. I've been meaning to, just to be on the safe side."

"Great," Olivia said, then took a deep breath, trying _too_ hard to look casual, and it was then that Mo knew she was lying.

"What happened?"

"Nothing!"

"Olivia, I can't help if I don't know what I need to help with."

Olivia hesitated, clearly going through some internal struggle, before she closed her eyes and seemed to wilt. "It's just Steve," Olivia said. "Something happened last night, he had a nightmare, and I'd just feel better if I knew how to handle that stuff. Maybe you could talk to him, too—just don't tell him I told you anything."

Mo was nodding. "I know he isn't doing well," she said thoughtfully. "I'll check in with him."

"Thanks."

Mo nodded. "Come on," she said, "we should get going if we want to be on time, but I'm going to need you to tell me a little more."

"Just a nightmare," Olivia said lowly. "I touched him and he freaked out, and that was it. He's not doing well. I hardly know him and I can tell."

"It's obvious for sure," Mo said, nodding slowly. "Thank you for telling me. I'll take care of it."

**AN: Things are going to be getting nice and romantic here pretty soon… let me know what you think!**


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: A fluffy Mucky chapter. Not completely necessary, but it's setting the stage for the benefit!**

"This benefit isn't going to be like the first," Olivia was saying, "there will be more people. Famous people. It's going to be a very high-profile event, and everything has to run smoothly. Imagine it as something of a Gala. There will be photographers, journalists—we can't screw this up." She took a breath, looking at each of them, and Mo felt just the tiniest prickle of nerves. She knew how intense events like this effected Bucky, and now possibly Steve as well. It was a bit of a gamble.

"To top it off," she went on, "Mr. Stark will be hosting an after party, and a _real_ after party this time. Music, dancing—do your thing, Mr. Stark, because it's by popular demand that this is happening. Don't let them down. We will all be a part of that after party as well, and I expect each of you to enjoy yourselves, or at least pretend to.

"Now, at the first part of the night, the benefit, the mood will be more formal, classy. There will be some surviving war vets there—from your war, gentlemen." She nodded at Bucky and Steve. "On top of having celebrities there. There will be dancing—formal dancing, not the sort we'll be expecting at the party. Captain Rogers, Mr. Barnes, as the guests of honor, so to speak, you _will_ be expected to dance with any woman who wants to dance with you, and I expect you to dance _well_. Dr. Fox, Mr. Stark, Mr. Wilson, same goes for you—dance if you are asked to dance. It'll look good."

"This is going to be uncomfortable, isn't it?" Sam asked. "Stuffy and classy, hoity-toity."

"It is," Olivia said. "Only for a while, then you can enjoy the party afterwards. Think of it as a reward for putting up with the 'hoity-toity.'"

Sam shrugged.

"We only have a few days. I've already arranged for a brief introductory dance lesson for all of you—"

"What," Bucky said, "I don't need dance lessons."

Olivia looked at him. "Yes, you do. Dancing has changed considerably since your time."

"But I know how to dance," Mo said.

"Not formally," Olivia said. There was a collection of groans from everyone.

"I can dance too," Sam whined. "This isn't necessary."

"It is," Olivia said, "and I expect each and every one of you to show up. Even you, Mr. Stark. I can't have my clients looking like a bunch of uncoordinated soldiers. You need to show people you can be classy, too. This is important _especially_ for the gentlemen—you _need_ to know how to lead a lady across the dance floor."

Tony groaned dramatically and Olivia's mouth quirked up in a small smile. "Good," she said, "now that we're all on the same page, there's another issue we need to discuss." She took a breath and Mo saw the hesitation in her eyes, that little flash of fear as she remembered the previous night's events. "Last night," Olivia said, "Dr. Fox and I were stalked and attacked by three individuals, claiming they were sending a message. Dr. Fox managed to take them down briefly, but one got back up and pointed a gun at Captain Rogers. Thanks to Mr. Barnes, his aim went awry and Captain Rogers wasn't harmed. I was grazed, but everyone made it out safely—this time."

"Hydra?" Tony asked, looking at Olivia.

"Civilians," Bucky said, rubbing his steel hand over his bruised knuckles. "Someone different."

"_You_ got shot?" Tony asked, looking at Olivia, who nodded a little. "Why am I just now hearing about this?"

"We were a little preoccupied, Mr. Stark."

"Great," Tony said, nodding. "Well, this is _exactly_ what we need. Not only do we need to worry about Hydra, but now we've got civilians stepping up as well. Who were they sending a message from?"

"We don't know," Steve said.

"They wouldn't talk," Bucky added.

Tony stared at them. "So does anyone have _anything_ useful to tell me? Anything at all?" They were silent and Tony rolled his eyes. "Fine, I can see where this is going. _Yes_, I'll see what I can find out."

"Thank you, Mr. Stark," Olivia said.

"Tough cookie," Tony said, looking at Olivia. "Feeling alright?"

"Yes, thank you," Olivia said, moving right along. "Anyway—that's it for now. Mr. Stark, please let us know what you find out as soon as possible. If someone is out to hurt Captain America, we need to change something to keep him safe. Tomorrow, at six, we'll be meeting in the Stark gym for that dance lesson. I'll see you all then."

* * *

The dance lessons were about as awful as Bucky had expected them to be. He'd entered with Steve and Sam to find Mo and Olivia already waiting for them with two other women; one of them, a brunette with silvering hair, was older than everyone else. Tony was the last one to meet up with them, and as soon as he did Olivia was right down to business.

"Great," she said, "thanks for coming, everyone. This is Lana—" she motioned to the older woman, who had a severe, hawklike face, dressed in stretchy dancer's clothing, "and Carmen." Carmen was curvier, younger, with tanned skin, big brown eyes, and black hair. She had a warm, kind face.

"Now, everyone select a partner." Immediately, Bucky and Mo locked eyes. Sam was also looking at Mo, and then his eyes moved to Bucky.

"You son of a bitch," Sam said, looking betrayed.

"Hey," Steve said.

Sam gestured at Bucky, looking at Steve petulantly. "He stole my partner."

"Sorry, bud," Bucky said, grinning. "The lady picked me."

"You no good partner-stealing—"

"Gentlemen," said Lana. "Are we ready?"

"I don't have a partner," Sam muttered.

"Neither do I, apparently," Tony said. "And I am _not_ dancing with him."

Bucky looked around. Mo had come to stand at his side and, surprisingly—or perhaps not so surprisingly—Steve and Olivia seemed to have selected each other, which had Bucky grinning, mainly because they looked so odd beside each other. He decided not to say anything.

"Carmen," said Lana, "with him." She gestured at Sam. "As for you, Mr. Stark, it's your lucky day; I shall be your partner."

Tony looked uneasy, and shot Olivia a look like he couldn't wait to get his hands around her throat. Bucky chuckled and beside him Mo was bouncing slightly, as though warming up. She smirked at Sam and Steve, then at Olivia. "You guys are going down," she said, bending over, touching her toes. She snapped back up, tossing her hair and tying it in a ponytail. "This guy and I—we're the dream team. We're gonna dance circles around you."

"Shut it, Fox," Sam growled, and Bucky laughed. Mo turned to him, ponytail bouncing, eyes bright and lively.

"Ready?"

"Ready," he chuckled.

"Gentlemen," Lana said. "Watch me and Mr. Stark. Ladies, stand in front of your partners. Now, gentlemen, stand straight, position your hands here and here…"

She went on, teaching them proper posture, how to hold a woman and lead her across the dance floor. She taught them basic, simple steps, dips, and twirls, (nothing new) and Bucky was so thankful he and Mo had come together for this; Tony looked ready to bail as soon as Lana released him, Sam and Carmen were doing alright, but Sam was growing tired of the technique aspect, and he repeatedly told them so. Steve and Olivia had started out well enough, but now they were snapping at each other.

"That was my foot," Olivia hissed.

"Well, maybe if you would watch where you put your feet—" Steve would retort.

"_Me?_ You watch where _you_ put your feet!"

"Get _your_ feet out from under _my_ feet!"

"Step on me one more time, Rogers—"

Bucky's eyes were watering with the effort it took to keep from laughing at them. Steve towered over Olivia. His hands were huge and gentle, light on her waist, his other hand engulfing hers as he led her around. She may have been tiny, but what she lacked in size she made up for with attitude, but Steve was, to his credit, successfully leading her.

"Mr. Barnes," Lana said, snapping Bucky back. "Why is Miss Fox leading you? _You_ must lead _her_."

Bucky looked at Mo and found her smirking up at him. She shrugged one shoulder as Lana turned away.

"Lead me, dammit," Mo said, and Bucky tried and failed to conceal his laughter; the choreographers were growing irritated.

"Something funny?" Lana asked.

Mo's eyes widened innocently. "No," she said slowly. They turned away and Mo narrowed her eyes at him. "Good going. You're gonna get me in trouble."

"_Me?_" Bucky asked incredulously. "Stop being so controlling, _Miss Fox_."

"Learn to take control, Mr. Barnes, and maybe I won't have to." She smiled sweetly at him.

"Oh?" he asked, and she swallowed.

"No," she started, and he literally swept her off her feet, dipping her backwards at a dramatic angle before bringing her back up. She yelped and gasped as she was pressed against his chest, her feet only just skimming the floor. He could feel her breath on his face and saw her cheeks flush, just a little. There was a slight hitch in her breathing, he noticed, and their eyes locked. Her eyes flicked down to his lips, just briefly, for an instant, and he was consumed for a moment with a desire to have her closer. He caught a strand of her hair and smoothed it back behind her ear.

"Better?" he asked lowly, and she nodded, looking flustered, and he set her back down.

"Alright, alright, stop," Lana said, clapping her hands, and the couples turned to face her. "With music now, yes? Ready?" The girls backed away from their partners. Mo stood across from Bucky and took a deep breath. Lana counted them off. "One-two-three, one-two-three…" The music started and Bucky approached her, catching her hand in his. He smirked at her, bowed ever so slightly, and pressed a kiss to her hand. Somewhere, Sam snorted. Bucky ignored him and tugged Mo closer, one hand on her hip, holding her other one in his cybernetic hand, and they stepped and moved in time with the song.

"Feel the music," Lana was saying. "You want to impress whomever you're dancing with… No, Mr. Rogers, _gently_."

Mo's mouth quirked. "They're bonding," she said, looking at Steve and Olivia, and Bucky chuckled.

"Is that what you call it?" He spun her out and she twisted.

"Beautiful," Carmen said to them. "Like that, Sam."

"Man," Sam said, glaring at them as Bucky smiled and drew Mo back in, dipping her gently. "Screw you guys."

"Dream team," Mo said. "Told you."

"Stole my partner," Sam grumbled.

"Jealous, much?"

"Sam is doing just fine," Carmen said, patting his chest. Sam rolled his eyes.

"This ain't how I dance," Sam said. "For the record."

Carmen laughed and turned him away. After a few moments, Bucky fell out of step and dipped her again, catching both of her hands and twisting her, abandoning the technique they'd been taught. He spun her so that her back was to his chest and pressed his face briefly against her neck, swaying before spinning her away.

It occurred to him then, very suddenly, just how lost he would be without her; that she was still in his life was a blessing, and he wasn't sure why she had never given up on him but he thanked God every day that she'd seen something in him that she refused to give up on. When things got sour or dark, when he got overwhelmed, she was the only one he wanted to see. She'd seen him at his worst and she'd stood faithfully at his side. Hell, he thought darkly, he'd nearly put her head through a wall on his worst day; there was still a tiny, faint scar, visible only if you knew where to look, to remind him of the occasion.

Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was how close they were, or that they were dancing together, but he was suddenly oddly sentimental. His throat felt a little tight, his chest felt a little tight, and he couldn't take his eyes off of her. He was terrified. She was strong, and she was brave, but he was so afraid of losing her, and he wasn't sure why it was hitting him now. But he felt a little shaky and his vision swam and reality slipped, just a little, but Mo noticed immediately and he wasn't sure how she always knew just when he needed her. She spun into him so as not to make it obvious and placed her hands on his shoulders, looking into his eyes.

"Hey," she said gently, her breath at his ear. "You okay? You look a little lost."

He wasn't sure how to answer; he wasn't sure if she'd understand. He thought of her, of everything she had been through for him, _because_ of him; he saw he bloody and scared, he saw her fighting at his side, he saw her holding him down as she dug a bullet out of him; he saw her holding his bloody hands and cleaning them, saw her sleeping beside him, so close, and the words were out before he could stop them.

"I don't want to lose you," he said, and his voice was husky. They were still dancing, but she stopped them and looked into his eyes, her head tilted slightly to one side.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said gently, smiling a little. He wasn't sure how she always knew the right thing to say, the right tone, the right mood. She stood on her tiptoes and brushed some hair out of his face. "You couldn't get rid of me if you tried. I'm here."

She was so close. Her lips were slightly parted, tilted upward into a gentle smile. He wanted to kiss her; he wanted it badly. All he needed to do was lean in, just the slightest bit. It would be so easy. But he couldn't. Not here, not like this, not in front of everyone. She deserved better than that. The benefit was in only a few more days, he told himself. He would make it perfect for her; she deserved that, at least, and he would give it to her. Instead, he leaned in slightly and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and he felt her lean in to him.

That night, he decided, would be _the_ night. He would sweep her off her feet.

**AN: Benefit in the next chapter! And let me tell you, it's gonna be a doozy—it'll be intense! I may actually split it into 2 chapters instead of one, but I think you'll all enjoy it! The moment you've all been waiting for it coming :) Plenty of Mucky and Stevia (is that what we're calling them? Works for me!)**

**Please review! Let's get this to 200!**


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: A few cameos in this one! This chapter covers the fancy-portion of the event… A little Stevia and Mucky, but the next chapter is where we really get into that ;)**

****A quick thank you to user ****luvhp123 for correcting the French!**

"C'mon, Grandpa," Olivia called, knocking on his bedroom door. "We're going to be late."

"It's my damned party," he grouched through the door. "I can be as late as I want."

She pinched the bridge of her nose, which was still bruised and sore. This was going to be a long night. Her grandfather, who was over one hundred years old and as spry as ever, it seemed, wouldn't listen when she tried to explain that it was not, in fact, _his_ party. In his eyes, he was the guest of honor.

"_Dépêchez-vous, vieillard, ou je partirai sans vous!"_ (Hurry, old man, or I'll leave without you!), she hissed in French.

"_Sois gentille, Olivia! Quelle impatience..._" (You watch your tone, Olivia! Impatient girl…)

"Oh, my god," she moaned. There was movement on the other side of the door and it unlocked and opened, and her grandfather stood on the other side in his old dress uniform. She smiled softly. "_Enfin."_ Finally. He gave her a look, his eyes wrinkled and watery, and she handed him his cane. The fact that he was even able to stand at his age was a miracle in itself, and more and more often she found herself wondering whether or not all the soldiers had been tampered with in some way.

He eyed her hair in that grouchy way of his and she felt her eyes rolling.

"I can't believe you did that to your hair," he went on. She'd heard it before. Many, many times. "You had such beautiful dark hair, and you go and turn it white—"

"Come on, Grandpa, we need to go."

"Quit rushing me! What happened to your face, anyhow? Were some kids picking on you again?"

"I'm a little old for that, wouldn't you say?"

He grunted and she took his elbow, helping him hobble toward the front door where a cab waited outside. They got in and she sent texts out to everyone: Tony, Mo, Bucky, Steve, and Sam, making sure they were all in place. The night hadn't even officially started, and she was already stressed out. She waited anxiously on their confirmations, and one by one, they came: she would be the last one to arrive of the group.

* * *

Making it past the photographers gathered outside of Stark tower was difficult, what with everyone calling out to him, and she could only pray that he would be polite until they made it inside. They all wanted to speak with him; he was, after all, the oldest living of the Howling Commandos, older even than Steve and Bucky. Living to be his age was quite the accomplishment. In fact, as far as anyone knew, he was the oldest living veteran.

"You're popular," she said, stepping inside an elevator.

"I want to meet the Stark kid," he said. "I knew his father."

Olivia sighed. "You'll meet him soon, Grandpa."

"And where are Rogers and Barnes?"

"You'll see them soon," she replied, smoothing her dress, a sleek silver thing that flashed and rippled when she walked, emphasizing her silver hair. "Just be patient."

"I'm one hundred and four years old!" he cried. "Any second could be my last, don't tell me to be patient! I don't have that kind of time!"

Olivia bowed her head and covered her mouth, trying to fight off the laughter. "Oh, my god," she murmured to herself, closing her eyes. It would be an interesting night, that much was certain. "Almost there," she said, so that he could hear, and he squared his hunched shoulders. As the elevator dinged to a stop, she pulled out her phone.

"Always on that damned thing," he mumbled, "always working."

"This isn't a party for me, remember? This is work."

"I still don't understand what you do."

"I know, _pépé, _I know."

"Going to parties all day counts as work now…" he muttered, climbing out of the elevator, Olivia at his elbow. The phone rang a few times before Steve picked up.

"Olivia?"

"Hi," she said. "I'm here, and my—_guest_—is eager to meet you. Won't shut up. Could you do me a huge favor?"

"Before I kill over!" Her grandfather shouted, snatching the phone. She laughed and stole it back.

"Thanks, Steve. We're just outside the doors; I think this should be private. Bring Bucky."

She sat her grandfather down on a bench and decided to meet them at the doors. Sure enough, they opened. Steve came out first, Bucky just behind him. She stopped them both and took them in; they looked devastatingly handsome, Bucky with that charm he always had, Steve classic and elegant in a way she wasn't used to seeing him.

"How's it going in there?"

"Fine," Steve said. "Met a few other vets. No one we knew personally, but they fought with us. You look beautiful, by the way."

She felt her cheeks warm a little. "Thanks," she said crisply. "Doing okay?"

"Yeah," Bucky said, adjusting his suit jacket. "Just a little strange, is all, thinkin' about it. We should look like them."

"Who'd you want us to come meet?" Steve asked.

"Uh…" she scratched the back of her neck, careful not to touch her delicate updo. "Well, it's someone you knew, personally, back in the day, which is why I wanted to do it away from everyone. Just in case. It could be a lot to take in."

Steve met her eyes. "Your grandfather," he said, and she nodded slowly.

"We knew your grandfather?"

She looked over her shoulder at the thin, gnarled old man sitting on the bench. "Grandpa," she called, taking a couple of steps backward, away from Steve and Bucky before she turned around and headed for the elderly man. "_Pépé."_ She helped him to his feet and he was staring at them, his eyes wide, shocked. He clutched at his chest. Olivia's own heart pounded. This was, in many ways, terrifying for her. This was a part of her she had never wanted revealed to any of them. And yet, with her grandfather at his age, how could she deny him this when it was a wish she could so easily fulfill?

"He looks a little different," Olivia said. "But Bucky, Steve, this is my grandfather. Jacques Dernier."

Her grandfather's mouth was open in shock and as he stared at them his eyes watered. The two younger men stared down at him.

"Frenchie?" Bucky murmured, and the old man began to laugh. He reached out for him and embraced him, thumping Bucky on the back, then reached for Steve.

"I can't believe it," he croaked, breaking away and staring at them. "I can't believe it."

"You didn't believe me," Olivia said, sidling up to him. "I told you so."

"I never thought I'd see either of you two again, after the train, and the—the crash. I heard about it on the news, when they found you, and the trial, but I never thought—"

He wiped at his eyes and both Steve and Bucky seemed to be in a state of shock.

"Thank you for coming," Dernier said. "I'm honored that you'd come to my party."

Steve's brow furrowed in confusion and Olivia cleared her throat sharply, giving him a look and shaking her head slightly. Steve nodded.

"That's right, buddy," he said, his voice a little husky. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Right, Buck?"

"Right," Bucky said. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"I see you've met my granddaughter," Dernier said, taking Olivia's hand. "Beautiful, isn't she? Even with that hair."

Steve laughed. "I'll admit, I thought it was strange at first." He met her eyes warmly, but he still looked a little thrown by the situation. "But it's grown on me."

* * *

"You know," Tony said, one hand on Mo's hip. "I am impressed with myself. Truly. I don't mean to pat myself on the back or anything, but—"

"Yes, you do," Mo laughed, and Tony smirked and shrugged. He'd been watching her move all night, studying the leg as she danced with strangers. He had every right to be impressed with himself.

"I've been working on another model," he said, "whenever you have the time."

"I work for you, Mr. Stark," she said. "I have time when you give me time."

He grinned. "You clean up nice, kid," he told her, and she couldn't help the smile. Tony wasn't an overly affectionate person. Admittedly, things between them hadn't been easy at first; they'd been professional, but being around each other had only reminded them of darker days. But things were changing, slowly, and they were making progress.

Tony's eyes suddenly went to a point over her shoulder and his lips parted a little, his eyes suddenly softening. He looked oddly vulnerable. Mo, startled by the change, glanced over her shoulder to find that he was looking at a beautiful redhead who'd just entered. She stood in the doorway, hands folded in front of her, looking uncertain.

"Pepper," Tony breathed, a slight catch in his voice.

Mo released him and he stepped around her. She wasn't briefed on the full story—only that Pepper had been in _treatment_ and that Tony blamed himself for it. Judging by the look on his face, it had been a while since he'd seen her. She sat back for a moment as he walked away from her toward Pepper, who looked absolutely stunning, if a little nervous. She saw Tony and she smiled, and he said something to her and she covered her mouth with one hand before wrapping her arms around him. When he kissed her, Mo looked away and scanned the room.

The main event was being held in one of Tony's event floors, similar to a ballroom. It was vast, elegantly decorated, and there were people everywhere. Mo felt a little overwhelmed. Tony was the first one who had spotted her, standing alone, and he's swooped to her rescue, pressing a glass of champagne into her hand. He'd joked with her a little before finally asking her to dance, stating that he'd wanted to check out her dancing ability with the leg he'd created for her.

Now, she was alone again. She hadn't seen Steve or Bucky, yet, and Olivia hadn't arrived. Sam was around, somewhere, skulking about, clearly not enjoying the stiff, fancy event. She felt a little uncomfortable herself, out of place; she felt that anyone who looked at her knew she didn't belong. She wasn't fancy; this classy lifestyle wasn't hers, and she felt like she stuck out like a sore thumb, especially because Olivia had dressed her in a deep red, strapless evening gown with an open back, gems and beads lining the bust. It was a beautiful gown that showed off her back, her neck, her arms and shoulders—more of her scars were on display than ever before and it made her feel vulnerable, skittish. Objectively, she looked beautiful, but she didn't like that her scars were showing—no one wanted to see something so awful looking.

Her heart pounded and she turned away and headed for the bar. She pushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. The style, thankfully, was simple; it was piled loosely at the base of her skull, out of her face with framing wisps. The focus, Olivia had said, was her dress, not her hair. And, apparently, her scars, though she hadn't fought Olivia on it.

"Hello, beautiful," came a familiar voice, and Mo felt herself relax immediately. Sam had appeared at her side, drink in hand, and offered it to her. "Looks like you could use a drink."

"Thank you," she said, embracing him and kissing his cheek, leaving a red stain behind on his skin. She laughed and wiped it away, taking a sip of the champagne. "You're a life saver."

"I know," he said with a smirk and a shrug.

"You look so handsome," she said warmly, a huge smile on her face. "Aw." She reached for his jacket and he swatted her away.

"Stop it, stop it," he said. "You're cramping my style." He straightened the coat and held his head high, smirking, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Got your eye on someone?" He nodded toward the crowd and Mo followed his gaze, scanning the faces. "Wait," she said a moment later. "Is that Carmen? The dancer? What's she doing here?"

"Olivia invited her," Sam said. "The game is on, Fox."

"She's pretty," Mo observed, looking at the other girl. "You have my blessing."

"Totally why I came over," Sam said sarcastically, "thank you."

Mo laughed. "Go get her, champ," she said, pushing him toward her a little. "Show her you can dance."

Sam downed the rest of his champagne and handed the empty glass to Mo, who sighed.

"You owe me a dance later," Sam said as he walked away. "Especially if I crash and burn with this girl."

"Looking like that?" she asked playfully. "Nah."

Sam smiled and she watched as he slid up to Carmen. The two talked for a little while before they took to the dance floor; Carmen was laughing at something Sam had said, and Mo was alone again for a moment before a man approached her confidently. She recognized him from somewhere, and it took her a moment to figure it out—he'd been there the day Tony had been taken.

"Colonel Rhodes," she said, saluting him.

"Sergeant Fox," he said. "Long time no see. How you doing?"

"Good, good," she said.

"Can I get you a drink?"

She held up her half-empty glass of champagne. "Sam beat you to it."

"Ah, the Wilson kid," he said, nodding. "Good kid. I'm surprised it's taken this long for us to finally meet—officially, that is. Good to hear you're well."

"And you," she said, inclining her head.

"Can I steal you for a dance?"

"I'd be honored," she said playfully, and he grinned. She finished her champagne and he led her out onto the dance floor; slow music was playing, the classy kind she'd only ever seen people dance to in movies, but she played along well enough. He was a decent dancer, and they talked as they danced—about Tony, about her leg, about Captain America, who Mo got the distinct feeling he had a bit of a man-crush on. Not that she could blame him.

"It's nice to have you aboard," he said, "part of the team."

"I wouldn't say that," she said. "I'm more, you know, I'm there to pick up the pieces, I guess. Behind the scenes. I like it that way."

"Tony told me what happened," he said. "About you and the little one getting attacked. We're doing everything we can to figure it out. JARVIS has a couple leads. Won't be long now."

She nodded. "Thanks," she said.

"Scary times," he mused, "when civilians are organizing against Cap."

"Scary," she agreed, pressing her lips together.

* * *

Olivia had led her grandfather back inside, leaving Bucky and Steve alone for a moment to compose themselves. Steve was still in shock. It was an odd thing to see, an old friend of his so, well, _old_, knowing that he should have been there right along with him.

"So much we missed out on, Buck," Steve said solemnly. "An entire lifetime."

Bucky looked at him. "Well, we're here _now_," he said. "No reason we gotta stop living. We've both got a second chance at this. I don't know about you, but I'm not trying to screw it up."

Steve held his eyes for a moment, nodding slowly. It resonated with him—there wasn't any reason to stop living. They could still have lives. Different, sure, but they could have fulfilling lives. A second chance. Steve looked away, toward the doors.

"I had no idea about Frenchie," Bucky said. "God damn. Small world."

"You said it," Steve said. He took a deep breath, nodding at the doors. "Ready?"

Bucky straightened and nodded and they headed back in. Steve found Olivia immediately; she stood out with her silver hair and silver dress. She was dancing with her grandfather, smiling and—was she _giggling?_ Steve couldn't believe his eyes. Seeing Olivia with her grandfather, the way she was so watchful, so full of life and laughter and _love_, was yet another side of her he hadn't expected to see. They walked around together for a few moments, and Steve was slowly becoming aware that Bucky was somewhere else, his eyes scanning faces.

"Do you see her?" Bucky asked.

"Who?"

Bucky gave him a look. "_Mo_, Steve. Mo."

Steve looked at his friend. "You're really hung up on this girl," he said slowly. He started to smile.

"Stop that," Bucky said.

"What?" Steve asked innocently.

"You wipe that stupid look off your face," Bucky started, and Steve started laughing. Bucky rolled his eyes. "Tonight's the night," Bucky reasoned.

"The night?"

"_The_ night," Bucky confirmed.

"What night?"

"The night I sweep Doctor Fox off her feet," he said confidently, but his voice faltered. He looked at Steve, his eyes edgy, nervous. "How do I look?"

That face, that look, that voice—the old Bucky had resurfaced, just for a moment, and Steve grabbed his friend's shoulder roughly, affectionately, giving it a squeeze.

"Like a million bucks," Steve said. "She's right over there, dancing with Rhodey. Tony's buddy. Go get her." Bucky took a breath and still looked nervous. Steve, still grinning, sighed and looked at his friend. "For what it's worth," he said, "she likes you, too. Everyone can see it. I'd wish you luck, but I don't think you'll need it."

Bucky nodded, smoothed his hands over his suit, and headed off after Mo, leaving Steve alone. He found himself lingering off to the side, watching as Bucky approached Mo, who smiled widely at the sight of him. He spotted Sam with the girl, Carmen, and Tony with Pepper, which was a pleasant surprise. Tony looked different with her, happy, and it was nice to see.

He ended up dancing with an elderly woman, the wife of a Vietnam veteran who cut in sharply once he noticed, warning Steve off of his wife. Steve surrendered gracefully, stating he hadn't meant any harm, laughing to himself.

"Punk," said the old man, and Steve ducked his head to hide his smile.

"Making friends already, I see," came a voice at his elbow. He found himself looking down at Olivia. "Punk," she said around a smirk. She looked a lot better, the bruises having faded, the cuts having started to heal, and what hadn't already faded had been covered with makeup. She looked stunning in her silver dress; delicate, sharp, looking as icy as ever, except that her eyes were warm. Her hair was curled and piled away from her face in a way that was vaguely vintage, hinting at the 40s, but it could have just been him.

"If I promised not to step on your feet this time," Steve said, "would you dance with me?"

She did that look, one eyebrow up. "You get one chance," she warned, and he smiled, nodding.

Olivia was beautiful—this wasn't a new revelation. He had always known it, but before, she had always been distantly beautiful, in a way that was cold, in a way that he didn't trust, but that had changed. She seemed to be thawing out, her eyes less guarded, her smiles coming easier, and he was slowly learning more and more about her. As he held her hand in his, it occurred to him just how tiny she was, and just how huge he was. He thought back to what Bucky had said, about if they had met back when he had been smaller, before he'd made it into the army. He remembered how difficult it had been, how girls had never wanted to dance with him because he'd been so damned small. Bucky had always talked him up just to get him a date, and the girls had always been let down, disappointed upon meeting him.

"What are you thinking about?" Olivia asked. "Why are you smiling?"

"Just something Bucky said," he replied.

"Want to share with the class?"

"Back before—way before—I used to always say girls didn't want to dance with a guy they'd step on. But you—" He faltered as she stepped on his foot. Her eyes went wide.

"I just stepped on you. I'm sorry. That wasn't on purpose, I swear." She was trying to fight back a smile and she was failing miserably.

He released her. "We're done here," he said, turning away, and she gasped and laughed, catching his sleeve and pulling him back. Laughing, he caught her waist and twirled her around. She was lovely when she smiled that genuine smile, the one she tried to conceal, the one he didn't get to see often. She was looking up at him; even in her heels, he was much taller than she was.

"You do look beautiful, tonight," he said, "in case I hadn't told you."

"I don't get tired of hearing it," she replied. "How are you holding up?"

"Fine," he said, knowing she was referring to the night a week ago. "I've been fine."

"You wouldn't tell me," she mused, "even if you weren't?"

"I'm telling the truth, now," he said evasively, and he meant it. She nodded slowly.

"Do you normally try to steal old men's wives?" she asked playfully, and he laughed.

"In my defense," he said, _"she_ asked _me_ to dance." She rolled her eyes and he twirled her again and dipped her down.

"I can't believe you never danced way back when," Olivia said. "You're good at it."

"Well," he said, "like I was saying, I didn't exactly have lines of gals waiting for me to sweep them off their feet."

She shook her head a little. "Well," she said slowly, biting her lower lip briefly. "_I_ would have danced with you."

He scoffed, just a little. "You'd have danced with me? Pre-serum me?"

"Especially pre-serum you," she said off-handedly. "We could have been small together." This earned a startled laugh. "What?" she asked, her tone playfully defensive. "Don't get me wrong, Rogers, you're a _pain_, but I think I'd have liked you."

* * *

"You—you look beautiful." She took his breath away, left him stumbling for words. She smiled up at him.

"Scars and all?"

"Scars and all," he said huskily. She made him nervous—was that normal, for him? He didn't know. But, _God_, she was beautiful, Bucky thought. She placed a hand on his chest.

"You don't look so bad yourself," she said gently. They'd stepped away from the dance floor and she led them to some seats. People were gathered around, eating, drinking, dancing. He couldn't look away from her; he was captivated. "How are you doing?" she asked. "Feeling okay?"

"Never been better," he said.

"Not bored?"

"Maybe a little," he allowed.

"Same," she said, tilting her head back a little, exposing her neck. "Can't wait for the afterparty." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Shouldn't you be dancing with people?"

"Only one girl here I want to dance with," he said, and her eyes widened playfully.

"Who? You've never mentioned her."

"Ah," he said. "She's beautiful—prettiest girl in the room. Can't miss her. And she looks devastating in red."

"You sound smitten," Mo said softly, resting her cheek in her hand.

"She's got me wrapped around her little finger," Bucky said lowly. "And she doesn't even know it."

He saw her swallow, noticed the pulse in her neck pick up speed a little. She pressed her lips together. "Well, what are you waiting for?" she asked, meeting his eyes. "Go get her."

**AN: Setting the stage… Next chapter is where all the good stuff happens! Can't wait!**

**Also, after writing this chapter, I kinda want to write a mini-AU-fic, placing Olivia and Mo back in the 40s, before the war, just for the heck of it, featuring Skinny!Steve. Would anyone read it? **

**Remember to leave a review! I can't wait for you guys to read the next chapter!**


	15. Chapter 15

**AN: The song Bucky and Mo dance to is **_**"Shut up and Dance"**_** by Walk the Moon, just for reference. I love, love, love, love, love this chapter! So much happens! Some sexual content, but nothing explicit.**

The afterparty was unlike anything Steve had ever experienced. People were packed in, dancing together; the songs, heavy with bass, pounded; lights flashed with the music, and the people dancing seemed to move together, as one. It was loud, so loud, _too_ loud. Seeking an escape, he'd taken to sitting on a barstool on the outskirts, breathing deeply, reminding himself that the pounding was just music, the flashing lights weren't dangerous. Besides, this environment wasn't something he was comfortable with; he was completely out of his element.

"Hey, bud!" Bucky had to shout to be heard over the music. "Doin' okay?"

"Yeah," Steve shouted, nodding. "Just needed a little break."

Bucky pulled up a stool to sit beside his friend. Steve eyed him, smiling a little. One of them, at least, had adapted. Bucky was sweaty, his hair damp, having removed his suit jacket, revealing the dark button up underneath. His eyes were still on the dance floor, and he shook his head.

"Man," he said to Steve, "are we behind on the times or what?"

"You said it," Steve laughed.

"Fun, though," Bucky said. "I felt silly at first, but it's fun. You should give it a go."

"I'd rather not," Steve said, and Bucky shrugged. Mo and Sam came staggering out of the crowd, each of them slicked with sweat. Mo's hair was slowly coming undone, but her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, and she was wearing a wide smile.

"Hey, boys," she panted, eyeing Bucky. "Wondering where you got off to."

He smiled at her and Steve glanced between them. They'd been dancing together all night; this was the first time Steve had seen them separate.

"Come on," Sam said to Steve, catching his attention. "You can't be sitting down at a party like this!"

"Yeah," Mo agreed. Steve shook his head.

"No can do," he said, and Sam rolled his eyes.

"I'll teach you," he said. "All you do is—"

The song changed to something Latin and Mo's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. "Sam!" she cried, gripping the front of his shirt. "Come on!" She caught his hand and dragged him away, but Sam caught hold of Steve, who lurched forward and grabbed Bucky, which was how they all ended up on the dance floor, which was the last place he wanted to be.

She and Sam, who both knew how to dance to this, were admittedly fun to watch. She spun around him and he kept up with her just as well, spinning her, twisting her, separating as they danced around each other. Steve found himself smiling, trying to ignore the pressure in his chest, the general anxious feeling, the need to escape. It grew worse as people, strangers, moved against him, leaving him feeling too hot, claustrophobic.

He found himself wondering where Olivia was. After the first half of the night had ended, she'd excused herself to take her grandfather home, promising to return. She should have been back by now. He checked his phone but had no messages from her. A hand on his startled him and he looked up to find that it was Mo's. She was smiling at him, mischief in her eyes, and she pushed the phone down and away, grabbing his hand and pulling him closer, dancing with him.

He appreciated the effort, but all he wanted was out. He found himself sweating, not only from the heat of the bodies packed around him. He met her eyes and shook his head minutely; she tilted her head to one side and then nodded, looking concerned, and he gave her a tight smile and turned, pushing through the crowd.

"Steve!" she called, and he turned to face her.

"Stay!" he shouted above the music. "I just need a little air!"

She hesitated and looked at Bucky, who was watching Steve intently. "Everything okay?"

"I'm fine!" Steve snapped, irritated. Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but Steve stepped closer to him, gripped the back of his head, and spoke in his ear: "I'm not going to mess up your night," he said loudly, still fighting against the music. "I'll be fine. Just feeling a little out of place."

He pulled away and Bucky held his eyes. Steve gave him a nod.

"If you need me," Bucky said, and Steve rolled his eyes.

"I'm fine," he repeated. "Have fun."

Bucky nodded slowly and Steve turned away. He was headed toward a door that led out to the balcony, in desperate need of some fresh air, when he caught a flash of silver in the flashing lights. Sure enough it was Olivia, tucked away on a barstool, some sort of pink drink in her hand, scrolling through her phone. He should have left her alone, he knew, but instead he pulled out his phone and sent her a message:

**Shouldn't you be dancing?**

He saw her look up and around, puzzled, and then smile.

**Shouldn't YOU?**

He smiled. **I could use some air**_**, **_he wrote.

He saw her brow crease, her face concerned. She wrote back immediately. **Want some company? Where r u?**

He should have said no, but he pocketed his phone and approached her, leaning against the bar beside her. She ignored him at first, still engaged in her phone, and he smiled, amused as she glared up at the man who had invaded her space, only to realize it was him.

"Oh—hey!" she said, and then she looked concerned again. "Having fun?"

He shrugged. "Guess this just isn't my thing. Too loud."

She searched his face and he avoided her gaze. The music seemed to have gotten louder, and he flinched as the lights flared up, red. His head swam and ached. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, taking a breath.

"Right," she said slowly. "Let's get you outside."

* * *

Bucky couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun. Mo and Sam had cleared out a small circle and were having a dance-off and he was laughing, until the song changed and Mo looked at him with wide eyes. She gave him a winning smile and pointed at him, dancing her way over to him as Sam swept up another girl—Carmen, he realized. Sam had had his sights set on her all night.

Mo took his arm, shouting, _"I love this song!"_

And so did everyone else, it seemed. They cheered and whooped, and Mo had his hands and she was bouncing up and down with him, elated, ecstatic and happy to be alive, and seeing her that way had him laughing and smiling broadly as he danced with her. She wasn't trying to impress him, something he'd always loved about her; she was having fun, being silly as she held one of his hands, stepping in time to the bouncy, lively rhythm, shimmying her shoulders, tossing her hair which was rapidly falling out of place.

"Eyes on me," she sang with the song, pointing at her eyes and spinning away from him. She glanced at him playfully over her shoulder and he got the hint, following after her, grabbing her hips. She pressed back against him, fitted perfectly to his body, swaying her hips before she took his hand and spun away again, spinning in and out, wrapping herself up in his arms.

The song climaxed and she released him as she spun away, putting some distance between them, eyeing him as she danced by herself, tossing her hair, rotating her hips, still stepping with the music. She winked at him and blew him a playful kiss, one arm wrapped around herself as she swayed. She pointed at him and crooked her finger at him flirtatiously, and he went to her. She grabbed him, one hand on the back of his neck, her body pressed against him, her hand in his hair and her forehead against his. Everyone around them clapped in time with the music as she swayed slowly, circling her hips against his. He felt the song building until it broke, and everyone around them shouted:

"_Shut up and dance!"_

Still with her hips pressed to his, he snapped her backward. She kept one hand on his shoulder and went with it as his hand supported her back, snapping her back up and spinning her around. She danced away form him again, allowing him to catch her arm and tug her back as the song finished, moving into another one which she apparently loved as well.

They were halfway through it, panting, sweating, smiling, when Olivia pushed through the crowd and interrupted them. Bucky was immediately on high alert; she looked frantic.

"I've lost Steve," she gasped.

"_What?_" Mo said. "What do you mean you _lost_ him?"

"I can't find him," she snapped. "One second we're talking, but he looked upset, and he started freaking out and he came back inside and I can't find him—"

Mo and Bucky exchange a glance. Both of them swore. Mo turned around and found Sam and caught him, tugging him back. He looked irritated at having been interrupted, but as soon as Mo said "_Steve's gone_," he was down to business.

"Did he say anything before he left?" Sam asked.

"No, he—he just—"

"Was he violent?" Mo asked.

Olivia held up one arm; blood leaked from a scrape on her palm, another on her elbow. Bucky scanned her; there was a tear in her dress, at the knees, and a tiny bit of blood. "I tried to stop him," she said, shaking her head, "he pushed me. He wasn't himself."

"Flashback," Bucky muttered. "God _damn_ it, I knew I shouldn't have let him go."

"It's not your fault," Mo said. "We need to split up. Olivia, stay with me. Sam, alert Tony and Rhodey, have them help out if they can. Bucky, you stick to this floor, Olivia and I will go lower. Can you handle him if you find him?"

Bucky nodded. Mo looked at the group, her eyes determined. "Alright," she said, "let's go."

* * *

Bucky didn't so much find Steve as Steve found Bucky. Stark tower was like a maze; Mo and Olivia had gone down while he'd proceeded to search other rooms on this floor, leaving the pounding music and lights behind. He cursed himself. He should have known better. He should have been there for his friend; he had seen it in Steve's eyes, that he was struggling, and he hadn't done a damned thing.

Bucky hadn't gone far when he'd felt the presence behind him, and he'd turned to find Steve. His face was distant, lost somewhere else, seeing things Bucky couldn't guess at. His shoulders were squared, brows heavy, fists clenched. His eyes were scared.

"Hey, bud," Bucky said as Steve stood across from him. Steve just stared at him.

"Don't make me do this," Steve said.

"Do what?" Bucky said, keeping his voice soft, gentle. "C'mon, pal, come back."

Steve took a step closer and Bucky held up his hands, showing he meant no harm, but Steve's eyes were stormy, lost, and Bucky knew he wasn't seeing or hearing him. He reached slowly for his phone and backed away, dialing Mo. She picked up and he didn't bother to greet her.

"He's in a flashback," he said, "it's bad. Get the others and meet me. I'll try and get him in a room somewhere where no one will see. Hurry, sweet'eart."

* * *

"There," Mo gasped, pointing at the door they had left open. Olivia was just behind her as she rushed into the room and found the two men on the floor. A glass table had been shattered and broken, and Steve somehow had Bucky pinned to the ground and was choking him, a snarl on his face. Bucky had a shard of glass and had it pressed against Steve's throat.

"It's okay," Bucky gasped. "Steve, buddy, it's okay."

Bucky's face was red. Mo left Olivia behind and dropped to her knees amid the glass, right in front of Steve. "Let him go," she pleaded. Where were the others? They didn't have time. "Steve, it's okay, let him go—" She broke off with a shriek as Olivia came out of nowhere, glass vase in hand, and smashed it against the side of Steve's head. Steve released Bucky with a groan; Bucky rolled over, coughing and gagging, gasping for air, and dropped the glass.

Steve was slumped on the ground, unconscious. Mo went to Bucky, and she saw that his lip was cut and his cheekbone was swelling.

"What—"

"He came at me," Bucky choked. "Flashback—"

"What in the hell—?"

Mo turned to see Sam, Tony, and Rhodey in the doorway. "Took you long enough," she snapped. After she'd gotten off the phone with Bucky, she'd called Sam.

"What happened?" Sam demanded.

"Flashback," Bucky said again, but there was something in his eyes and Mo knew he wasn't doing well. He was shaking. He gestured at Steve. "Attacked me. Olivia knocked him out."

"_Olivia?_" Tony asked incredulously.

"I just hit him with a vase," she said weakly, and Mo saw that she was even paler than usual, looking shaken.

"We need to do something," Mo said seriously, taking control. Steve groaned on the floor. "No one can know. But I need to get Bucky out of here."

"I'm fine—"

"No you're not," she said, her tone hard. "And neither is he. We need to keep them separate—they're both done partying for the night. It's over. Time to go home."

"Cap can stay here," Tony said. "We'll board him up in his own room somewhere; JARVIS will keep him locked in until we can figure this out. Sam, stand guard—"

"No," Olivia said, "we can't do that. People will notice if all three of them go missing at once."

"I think they're all a little too drunk to put it together," Rhodey said.

"You're be surprised," Olivia muttered. "We'll put Steve in a room and I'll keep watch. No one knows who I am."

"Nice idea," Sam said, "but if he wakes up crazy—"

"I can handle him," Olivia said. "The last thing we need is for people to start thinking he's losing his marbles. Mo, you handle Bucky. I can look out for Steve."

Mo held her eyes for a moment. Olivia gave her a nod that said _I can do this_, and Mo conceded.

"She's right," Mo said. "If the Golden Trio suddenly disappears, people will start asking questions. Sam, go back up to the party. If people ask where Steve is, tell them—tell them—"

"Just tell them he went home," Olivia said. "He wasn't enjoying himself. Sometimes it's still hard for him to adjust to this era. It makes sense. Bucky went with him. Don't volunteer this information—_only_ if you're asked."

"Got it," Sam said uneasily. "Are you sure I shouldn't be the one with Steve? I mean, I know a thing or two—"

"No," Mo said, "Olivia is right. I can give her a quick rundown, and she can call us if something goes wrong. For now, you need to go upstairs and pretend everything is fine."

Sam still looked uneasy and Mo met his eyes. "Go, Sam," she said gently. "Go find Carmen. You deserve to have a good night."

"I don't like this plan," he said, pointing at the two girls. "Just for the record." He hesitated, looking at Steve on the floor, and he looked emotional. "God damn it," he said, turning away. Once he was gone, Mo looked at Tony and Rhodey. "Can you two get him to a room?"

"Sure," Rhodey said, and he looked a little anxious, a little nervous. Under normal circumstances, it would have made her smile, given her man-crush theory, but now she couldn't bring herself to smile. She was feeling sick with guilt.

"Alright," she said. "You three, with him. Put him away, then the guys can go back to the party like nothing's happened. Have your phones on you. Olivia, if anything happens, you call me. Don't tell us where you're going. For their own safety, I think it's best if these two don't know where the other is at."

"But—" Bucky started, but Mo cut him off.

"It could be triggering," she said, "if you slip up, I don't need you hunting him down."

Bucky nodded slowly. Olivia was crouched over Steve, her eyes wide and wet, her lips trembling. She touched Steve's temple and her hand came away bloody, and she placed her clean hand over her mouth. Her whole body shook.

"I'm sorry," she said to his unconscious form. "I'm so—"

"Olivia," Mo said sharply. "Focus." She stood and grabbed Bucky's hand, tugging him to his feet as Rhodey helped Olivia up. "Alright," Mo said. "Let's go."

* * *

Mo, of course, had brought Bucky back to her room. He seemed to be doing better, but the guilt was written all over his face. They walked to the door in silence as Mo scanned her hand and let them in, flicking on the light.

"What a night," she said softly, looking at him. "You okay?"

"This is my fault," he said, his voice low and raspy; from emotion or from being choked, she wasn't sure. Maybe both.

"No—"

"He had a flashback about _me_, Mo. I did this to him. I made him like this."

Mo leaned against the wall, shaking her head. Now that she was alone, now that the crisis had been handled, she felt anxious, jittery—_guilty_. Olivia had told her about the nightmares. She had known, and she hadn't done a thing about it.

"No," she said, a catch in her voice. "No, it's my fault."

"You can't blame yourself," Bucky said gently, taking a step closer, touching her elbow. She shook him off, one hand on her forehead. Her throat was tight. "You didn't know."

"But I did," she said wildly. "I did know. I _knew_ and I didn't do a thing about it."

He looked at her, confused. "What are you talking about?"

She sniffed. She felt awful. She didn't want to tell him—what would he think of her, knowing she'd been warned, and that she just hadn't gotten around to doing anything about it? _Gotten around to it._ It sounded awful. She looked up at him, at the darkening bruises at his throat, the bruise on his cheekbone, his split lip, and all the breath went out of her. She was shaking. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"I, um—a week ago, Olivia told me Steve was having nightmares…"

"Nightmares," Bucky echoed slowly.

"I screwed up," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I screwed up, and now look at you—"

"What are you talking about?"

Mo took a breath. "Apparently," she said, "Steve's been having these nightmares where he—he kills you." There was a beat of silence as Bucky registered her words. She brought her thumb to her mouth, biting on the nail anxiously. "I should have known, then, I should have done something, and I didn't, and now he acted on it and he tried to kill you and—"

"Wait," Bucky said, holding up a hand to silence her. She looked up at him, lowering her hand from her mouth and biting down, hard, on her lower lip. "You're telling me that _my best friend_ was having nightmares about _killing_ me… and you didn't think that's something I should know about?"

He was angry. It was all over his face, and he was right to be. She shook her head. Her eyes watered.

"I know I screwed up—"

"_I'm the first one you should have told!"_ He was shouting, and she flinched.

"I didn't want to upset you," she tried, and he laughed.

"Well, I'm a little upset now."

"Bucky—"

"How could you keep something like that from me?" Bucky demanded. "If something's going on with him, _I want to know about it!_"

"We just got you in a good place," she snapped defensively. "I didn't want to tell you something that might set you back. We can't afford a setback right now!"

"Screw the setbacks!" he shouted, throwing his hands up. "This is something serious. If I had known—"

"Look," she cried, pushing away from the wall. "I know I screwed up, alright? Should I have mentioned it? Yeah, looking back, maybe I should have, but the last thing I need right now is for you to take a step backward because of something he's going through—"

"You think I'm that fragile? He's my best friend. _I'm supposed to be there for him!_"

"I told you—you come first!" They were shouting at each other now, and Mo was upset. They'd never fought before, not like this. Her heart pounded and she was fighting back tears—she was an angry crier. "I'm not going to put _your_ mental health at risk—"

"_I don't need your help!_" he said furiously. "_He does!_"

"_That's not the point_—"

"The point is you _lied to me!_ How could you not tell me?" He was breathing heavily, his blue eyes dark and furious. He cut himself off and took a breath suddenly, shaking his head. "No," he said abruptly, holding up a finger and backing away from her. "No, we—we're not doing this. Not tonight."

She stopped and looked at him, wiping furiously at her eyes. She'd started crying, and she saw Bucky's eyes trace the motions and he tilted his head back, laughing a short, humorless laugh.

"What?" she snapped.

"Oh, this is great," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "This is perfect."

"What are you—"

He held up his hands. "Never mind," he said, backing away from her. He stared at her face. "Look at that—I made you cry. Can we just—I don't want to fight with you. I'm sorry. I—" He groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face, then turned away and headed for her bathroom. She trailed after him. Both of them were clearly still fuming. He turned the tap on cold and she sat on the edge of her bed, watching him as he unbuttoned a few of the top buttons on his shirt, a dark blue that brought out his eyes, and splashed his face and with cold water.

She hesitated, watching as he ran his hands through his hair and rinsed his mouth. Finally, he just rested his elbows on the sink, hunched forward, head bent down. His eyes were closed, and she had no way of knowing what he was thinking. Was he still angry with her? Probably, and he had a point, he had a right to be. She watched him for another few seconds before she kicked off her shoes and stood, gathering her dress in her hands as she walked over to him.

Slowly, tentatively, she came up behind him and placed one hand on his lower back. When he didn't snap at her or move away, she moved closer, wrapping her arms around his waist and curling over him, pressing her face into his back. She took a deep, shaky, steadying breath and closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "For not telling you."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm sorry for yelling at you."

"I'm sorry for yelling back."

He huffed, a quiet laugh, and she smiled softly. Slowly, he straightened up and she released him, taking a step back. She caught her reflection in the mirror as he turned to face her and she grimaced. Her makeup was smudged, her hair wild, held in place by only a couple of pins.

"I look like a monster," she muttered, more to herself than to him, but she saw him smile a little, shaking his head.

"What a night," he said. "For the record, this is the _opposite_ of how I planned it out."

"Really," she asked, smirking.

"Really," he confirmed.

"And what was your plan?" A small half-smile curled his lips, like he couldn't stop it, and he shook his head. "What?" she urged. "Come on, now you have to tell me."

"I was just—I was gonna show you a good time," he said, "like you deserve. Because you do deserve it. And I had—I had this little speech prepared, and I was plannin' to tell you, you know, how I feel about you, and…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "And then this happened."

Her heart was doing that stupid, fluttery thing in her chest. "Well, let's hear it," she said. He gave her a look. "The speech—c'mon, let's hear it." He laughed and shook his head. "Please?"

"I—fine," he gave in. "I mean, it wasn't gonna be exactly like this, it was gonna be a lot more romantic, but I was gonna tell you that I—well, I think you're somethin' special. I think you're amazing, really, the best person I know, and I don't ever want to lose you or do anything to hurt you, and then I went and made you cry and—"

She started laughing. "You're gonna make me cry again," she said.

"I just care about you," he said, more seriously this time. "A lot. And I don't know what I would do with out you and I don't ever want to find out."

She was looking up at him; he was close enough that when he sighed, his breath stirred her hair. "And then I was gonna try and kiss you, if you'd let me, but then the night went to hell and…" he just shrugged. Her heart stopped. "I was gonna sweep you off your feet," he said. _"That_ was the plan."

She took a step closer, her eyes trained on his mouth. He was so close. His lips parted a little and she smiled softly, a nervous smile, and she couldn't believe what was happening but she didn't give herself time to think. "Well," she said lowly, still looking up at him. "Consider me swept."

She pressed up on her tiptoes and kissed him. It was a soft kiss, and gentle kiss, just the slightest pressure. His mouth was soft and warm and he sighed against her lips as she pulled away slowly, watching his face. His eyes were closed and he blinked them open, smirking a little.

"You know," he said, "that's not fair. _I_ was supposed to kiss _you._"

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them: "What's stopping you?"

His eyes dropped to her mouth and she stretched up toward him again. This time he kissed her, gently at first, his lower lip between hers. She felt him smile and she nipped it gently as he pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, and she placed her hands on his shoulders.

"Aw, hell," he groaned. "What're you doing to me?"

She smirked and he brought his mouth down to hers again, this time more insistent, and she brought one hand to the back of his neck. The kiss was clumsy at first and she found herself smiling against him. His metal hand framed her face and he tilted his head a little, deepening the kiss, and she released a breath as it quickly became clear that he was good at this. It wasn't long before she'd gone soft against him, lost in him, in the feel of him and the smell of him and the taste of him. His hand ran down her back, bare in the dress, and she pressed closer to him. Her heart pounded and she was nearly breathless—

His phone buzzed and his lips stilled. Both of them froze and she pulled away as it buzzed again, nodding at him to check it. It could be important. Sure enough, it was Steve. Bucky looked at her and she nodded again and he answered it. Heart still pounding, feeling a little dizzy, it was only then that she realized they were still in the bathroom. She pushed him out, listening intently. Steve was awake and he was apologizing, and Bucky was reassuring him that he was okay, that he should rest, that they would talk in the morning.

He sat on the bed. The call was quick at least. He hung up and looked at her.

"He's alright," Bucky said. "Olivia was with him. He feels awful."

"I'd imagine," she said lowly, and they both looked at each other. She cleared her throat. Her hands shook. "I should change," she said, suddenly very aware of the dress she was wearing. She gathered a set of pajamas—her cuter ones, of course—and turned to him. "I don't really have anything for you," she said, and he waved her off.

"I'll be fine."

"Alright," she said, heading for the bathroom. "Give me a sec."

She closed the door behind her and checked her reflection again: her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly swollen from his kiss. She found herself grinning stupidly and shook her head, scrubbing a hand over her face, and reached for the zipper. It was an open-back, strapless dress, so it should have been easy enough to wiggle out of, except that it was very tight through the hips and she couldn't get out of it without unzipping it. The zipper was, of course, impossible to undo on her own. She couldn't get a good grip on it. She groaned and braced herself. What to do? She bit down on her lower lip, her skin prickling, and sighed.

She opened the door and found him still sitting on the bed. He turned to look at her. She smiled sheepishly.

"Hey," she said, stepping out and turning so that her back was to him. She looked at him over her shoulder. "Help me with the zipper?"

"Sure," he said, getting to his feet. She held still as he took the zipper in his flesh hand. He was just behind her, so close, and she suddenly felt very warm. He unzipped it slowly, his knuckles tracing her skin, but once it was done he didn't step away, and neither did she. She felt his body flush against her back, felt his fingers in her hair as he removed the pins and it came tumbling down. He didn't speak as he swept her hair to one side, over one shoulder, and she felt his breath on her neck a moment before she felt his lips. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back as his lips skimmed up to her jaw, his hand tracing her back, and she turned so that she was facing him again and his mouth was on hers.

She wanted him. She had wanted him for a long, _long_ time, and now that it was happening she couldn't get enough of him fast enough. She craved him, needed him closer, always closer.

The kiss was different this time, skipping past the gentle introductory kisses. It was intense with desire, and she parted her lips and deepened it, her hands on the back of his neck as his hands traced her back. It wasn't long before the both of them were breathing heavily and he walked her back against the wall. She gasped as he pushed her, her back hitting the wall with a dull thud, but they weren't separate for long. She grabbed the back of his head and desperately dragged him back to her, missing his lips on hers, kissing him roughly.

He grabbed her steel leg with his cybernetic arm forcefully, and the screech of metal on metal filled the room but they ignored it. She hooked it around his waist, drawing his hips closer as his mouth slipped down over her neck, her collarbones. She gasped for air, fisting her hand in his hair and tilting his head back, where she kissed his neck and sank her teeth into him. He groaned and pushed her back against the wall again, kissing her, and when she bit his bottom lip and pulled his control seemed to snap.

He kissed her roughly, his hands balling in her dress, and lifted her off the ground, pressing her back into the wall. She wrapped her legs around him and kissed him hungrily, desperately, her heart pounding in her ears. The dress had slid down around her hips and she wiggled out of it as he held her up. Once she was free of it, she set to work on his shirt, slipping it over his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. Her hands traced the newly exposed skin and he pulled away for a moment, stopped kissing her to look at her. She was still wrapped around him and she brought her hands to frame his face and looked into his eyes.

She was nearly naked, wearing only her underwear. She should have felt nervous, or self-conscious with her scars on display, but she didn't. As though sensing her thoughts, he leaned in and gently kissed the scars on her face, her neck, her shoulder and chest before she brought his face back up. Her hands traced his shoulders she brought her mouth down to his, kissing him slowly, intimately, and he made a soft little noise in the back of his throat as she pushed him toward the bed.

**AN: Longest chapter so far! I hope you enjoyed it! Last chapter had the most reviews to date, so let's see if we can beat that! More Stevie in the next. Finally, Mo and Bucky get together… hope it was worth the wait!**

**I decided I will write that fic, eventually – it'll be a few chapters long, and it should be fun! Mo will be a singer in a little dance club who goes by the Fox. Not sure about Olivia yet – maybe a little punk who goes by Olive?**

**ANYWAYS – Review, please! What do you think?**


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: Not too eventful… some Olivia and Steve interaction, and I threw in some Mucky purely for the sake of fluff at the end just because it took me so long to get this chapter out. Thanks for waiting!**

"Just go," Olivia said, leaning against the door. "I'll keep watch."

Tony eyed her. "Do _not_ let him out of there until we figure this out," he said sternly. "The last thing we need is him coming out and attacking my party guests."

"Yes," Olivia said, absently, "that'd be awful. I think I can handle it."

Tony and Rhodey exchanged a glance before Rhodey turned to her, motioning to her elbow. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully. "Want me to take a look?"

"Please," she drawled, "I've had worse. Get out of here."

Rhodey nodded. "You have my number," Tony said, backing away slowly. "Jarvis will talk to you if you need him. You've got access to the room, just like the rest of us, but _do not let him out_."

"Let him out," she said, nodding, "got it."

Tony smirked and guided Rhodey to the elevators. He cast her one more backward glance before he disappeared inside. She clunked her head back against the door and slid down until she was seated against it, legs stretched out. She tugged off her stilettos and flexed her feet luxuriously, scanning her legs until she reached the tears at her knees, stained with a little blood. Thankfully, she hadn't been hurt badly at all; just a couple of scrapes, and she was grateful. The healing wound in her side ached dully, but it wasn't anything she couldn't deal with.

She'd never seen anything like what had happened before. Sure, she'd seen Bucky's flashback at the photoshoot, but he had just sat there, waited it out. This was unlike anything she'd experienced. She'd been watching Steve's face as it had suddenly gone blank; she'd watched him struggle against it until that point, but once he'd lost to it, he was gone and there was no getting through to him. She'd gotten in his way, tried to stop him, and he'd just pushed right past her, knocking her over.

Once they'd figured out a plan, Mo had told her that getting in someone's way during a flashback was dangerous. She'd chastised her, not only for that but for clubbing Steve with the vase which, apparently, had also been a bad move. But then she had thanked her. Olivia wondered briefly about Bucky; she hoped he was alright. He'd looked pretty shaken. Then again, he was with Mo. She'd seen the two together, the way Mo seemed to always have a read on him and his emotions, sometimes before he did himself, and Olivia knew he would be fine.

It was Steve she was worried about. Who had a read on Steve? Who knew him as well as Mo knew Bucky? He was difficult; he kept himself so closed off, kept everyone at a distance, which Olivia thought odd. Between the two, she'd have expected the Winter Soldier, of all people, to be the one to keep himself closed off and distant, but that clearly wasn't the case. From what she'd heard, he'd recognized that he'd needed help and he'd allowed Mo to help him. Steve was a different case altogether. Bucky could read him, she knew, but they'd spent 70 years apart, one under the ice, the other transformed into a weapon, and people changed—Bucky had changed, and he still couldn't remember some of who he was. Then there was Sam, who probably had a better read on Steve than Bucky did, sometimes, and maybe they balanced each other out but it still wasn't the same. Tonight was proof of the fact that Steve didn't have anyone, not the way Bucky had Mo.

If he had, she thought, if he really had someone who knew him that well, who had invested themselves so deeply in his _recovery_—she realized now that that was what it was—if he let someone in the way Bucky had, tonight would have gone a lot differently. She was willing to bet that if it had been Bucky, it wouldn't have happened. Mo watched him too closely, knew his tells, and the incident would have been avoided.

But this wasn't Bucky. This was Steve, and Steve hadn't allowed anyone to help him, not like Bucky had.

Olivia sighed. It was sad, really. She knew she kept people at a distance herself; she was well aware of her flaws, and she knew that this was a big one, but Steve Rogers put her to shame. He'd perfected the art. He pushed people away and kept them distant without anyone ever realizing it. But she was onto him. She recognized it.

There was movement on the other side of the door and she slowed her breathing, listening intently. Footsteps, mumbling sounds, and the footsteps shuffled closer until Steve jiggled the handle. When it didn't budge, he hit the door, so hard that it shook, and took to pounding on it. Olivia was immediately alarmed.

"Hey," she called, and Steve immediately stopped trying to break down the door. "It's reinforced," she told him, "you're not going anywhere."

"Olivia?"

"Yep."

She grunted and pushed herself to her feet, taking a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for whatever was about to go down.

"What happened?" She hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was panicky. "_What did I do?"_ He sounded so upset. "_Where's Bucky?"_ He rattled the door again.

"Calm down," she said, thumping her fist against the door. "Bucky's fine. A little banged up, but he's with Mo and she's taking care of him. You lost your shit and went after him." She paused. He was silent. She wondered if she should go on, but figured hiding the truth would only be a disservice. "You tried to kill him, Steve."

The silence on the other side of the door made her nervous. She waited him out for a few moments before she knocked softly on the door. "Captain?" No answer. "Cap—_Steve_."

"I need to see him."

"No can do," she said.

"_Let me see him!"_ he shouted.

"No," she said roughly, then softened her voice, for once realizing that maybe, just this once, fighting fire with fire wasn't the right choice. "Steve," she said, in the gentle voice she reserved for her grandfather when he was cranky, or when he was lost in his mind somewhere. "You're grounded for tonight. Okay? Just… just settle down."

"Did I hurt anyone?" his voice was defeated. Sad. She'd never heard him like this, and it frightened her. She looked down at her bloody knees.

"Everyone's okay," she said.

"You're avoiding the question," he said, and his tone was worried, anxious, desperate.

"You choked Barnes," she said, "but he's okay."

"I need to see him—"

"You can't. Not tonight," she said, leaning against the door. "Everyone needs time to cool off."

A cold laugh. "Who's going to stop me?"

"Don't do this," she said, "don't fight us, please. Don't make this harder than it has to be." Steve made a frustrated noise from the other side, a sound that quickly changed to a broken, frightened sound, and her heart went out to him. She waited him out for a few moments and when she didn't speak again, she still hesitated, reconsidering her idea. Finally, she just bit her lip and pulled a phone out of her clutch—his phone. She'd snagged it off him after she'd knocked him out.

"I have your phone," she said gently. "I can let you call him, if you want." There was a beat of silence. "But you need to back away from the door." Her heart began to pound, and she was suddenly terrified at the thought of facing him. He was Captain America, after all, and she knew that she was small. If he wanted to rush her and get past her, he could without issue. This came down to trust, and that was a concept she tended to struggle with. "Can you do that?"

Still silence. She heard him take a breath. "Okay," he said.

Her palms were sweaty. "Back up," she said. "As far as you can. If you try and get past me—"

"Really, Olivia?" he sounded petulant, exhausted. His voice sounded farther away. He'd backed up.

"I'm just being safe," she muttered. "As far as you can."

"Can't go much farther," he said, and his voice was, in fact, further away, if a little exasperated.

"I'm coming in," she warned, and when she tried to scan her hand it was shaking too badly for the scanner to get a good read. She wiped it on her dress, took a deep breath, and scanned it again. This time the door clicked open and she quickly stepped inside the room, closing the door behind her immediately and bracing herself, certain that he would be coming at her. When nothing happened, she slowly opened her eyes and found him as far away from her as was possible, the dim lamplight creating haunting shadows on his face, his blue eyes lost.

She cleared her throat and took a slow step closer to him, extending her hand with the phone in it for him. She saw his eyes scan her up and down, lingering on the blood on her elbow and at her knees. She'd never seen him look this bad, and she was frightened, afraid that he would lose it, wondering if she should call for Jarvis.

He stayed where he was until she'd made it about halfway across the room, where she stopped and waited for him. It was obvious that her hand was shaking, but she took a breath and steeled herself, meeting his eyes, arching an eyebrow at him.

"Well?"

"You're upset," he said. "Olivia, I am _so sorry_—"

"Save it," she said, brushing him off, afraid to let him know how shaken she truly was. You're Olivia Tate, she told herself, you're not afraid of anything.

"And the blood—I—"

"Are you gonna call him or not?"

Steve nodded a jerky nod and walked toward her like he was approaching a wild animal. She held her ground and allowed him to take the phone. He stared at it for a moment before retreating to sit at the kitchen table; she followed him, watching him as he held his head in his hands for a moment, struggling to keep it together, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Finally, he called Bucky. Olivia stepped closer, listening intently as Bucky answered, but his voice was distant, muffled against Steve's ear, but it was clear that he had said _"Steve."_

Steve had to clear his throat. "Yeah, hi, Buck. You—you alright?"

She sat beside Steve, heard Bucky say something along the lines of "_had worse_," and Steve laughed shortly.

"What?" Steve asked. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Olivia—she's right here. Won't let me go anywhere. Yeah, she is." Steve gave her a look, but Olivia had no idea what Bucky had said. "I just wanted to check in, make sure you were doing okay… I'm sorry I let this happen—it _is_ my fault—I know, I know. Yeah. Yeah. I'm sorry I ruined your night—" he broke off, then, and grinned a little, looking surprised, and Olivia found herself, again, wondering what Bucky had said. "Well—I'll leave you alone then. Yeah, we'll figure it out tomorrow."

And that was it.

Steve blew out a sigh, put the phone down, and rested his head in his hands. She noticed that he was shaking a little. She sighed and he started at the sound, and her heart broke a little. She wasn't Mo, she thought. She didn't know how to fix this.

"Alright," she finally said, and he looked at her. She stood. "To bed, Rogers. Sleep it off." He just stared at her.

"Steve," he said. "You've been calling me Steve."

She wasn't sure why it mattered, so she shrugged. He looked away and lifted a hand to gently touch a spot near his temple, which was smeared with dried, crusted blood. It flaked away at his touch, the wound opening a little under his prodding fingers.

"He got me good, at least," Steve said, and Olivia glared at him.

"That was me, actually," she said coldly.

"You?"

"Yeah," she said, puffing up a little. "You were choking Barnes, so I hit you with a vase. It looked expensive, too; your thick skull shattered it."

"You hit me with a _vase?_"

"I'm not going to apologize," she snapped, pushing away the memories; the memories of her, on her knees, cradling his head and on the verge of tears, whispering "_I'm sorry, I'm sorry_," over and over again. She lowered her eyes immediately, a guilty lump forming in her throat, and she stared down at her hands, which still shook a little.

"I wasn't asking you to," he said. "I'm impressed—_and_ I deserved it." He smiled a little and she shook her head at him.

"Don't do that," she said, and he blinked. "Don't do that thing."

"What—"

"Something _awful_ happened tonight," she said, her tone icy, angry. She stared into his blue eyes. "You don't get to make stupid jokes and act like it's no big deal, because guess what? Everyone knows, now. All of us—Sam, Mo, Bucky, Tony, even _Rhodey_—we all saw you. Everyone knows you're losing it. Stop _avoiding_ it." He just kept staring at her for a moment before he nodded slowly. "We're dealing with this," she said firmly, taking a breath. "As your—_handler_—I'm telling you that you are going to deal with this. No more public appearances, no more photoshoots, no more interviews, _nothing_, until—"

She wasn't breathing between words; her sentence had blurred together. She took a little gasping breath and Steve took the moment to interrupt. "I scared the daylights out of you," he said, "didn't I?"

"No," she snapped.

"I'm so sorry, Olivia. I—you shouldn't even be in here with me, I'm a ticking time bomb—"

"I told them I'd stay."

"Well I'm telling you to go—"

"You don't get to order me around," she said dryly. Her knees and elbows ached. She was tired. Scared. Cranky. She wanted to hit something. Her fists clenched. "Stop telling me what to do. I handled you just fine, earlier, and I can do it again if I have to."

"Another vase?" he asked.

"Just shut up," she said, standing, looking at the blood leaking from his head. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. "You're getting blood everywhere." It had dropped onto his suit, onto the table, stained his fingers. She wondered if it would be _triggering_, a word she heard Mo use a lot. She didn't want to take that risk, so she left him behind and hurried to the bathroom on bare feet, still in the ripped and blood-smudged dress—she had nothing to change into. She turned the tap on warm and dampened a couple of cloths and found some band-aids and first aid supplies before heading back into the kitchen. He hadn't moved.

She dropped the supplies on the table and sat on the tabletop beside him, tossing a damp cloth at him. He caught it and she watched him clean his head, wincing a little. She gave him a look. "Really? Don't be such a baby, Cap—Steve."

Steve's mouth quirked a little. She felt his eyes on her as she tried to shuck up the dress to get to her knees and clean them off, but the dress was a _tight_ mermaid cut.

"Tragic," Steve mused as she struggled with it. She glared at him.

"It's _your_ doing," she reminded him, finally giving up. She hooked her fingers into the torn fabric at her knees and tugged; it gave a little with a sharp tearing sound, and after a moment Steve stilled her hands, grabbed the fabric, and with one swift yank had torn everything below the knees away. She gasped a little and flinched away, shaking again. After tonight, she was very, _very_ uneasy around him. She'd never known him well to begin with, but she'd always had an idea of what he was capable of. Then, seeing the look in his eyes when he lost himself, the violence, the way he'd tried to kill Bucky—

"I—I'm going to take a shower," he said abruptly, standing. "You should go."

She watched him go, heard the shower turn on, and stayed where she was. She couldn't stop shaking. This was _Steve_, she reminded herself, but somehow that meant nothing, not anymore. She wanted to leave, or at least wait outside, but she was as stubborn as she was frightened. Her head swam, and on top of the fear was a deep sympathy—her heart broke for the super soldier.

There was a sudden, fierce hitch to her breathing, a clutch in her chest, and she gasped. She wanted to cry. That was it—she wanted to curl up in her bed at home and cry until she felt better, but she couldn't, not tonight, now where there was a witness, least of all Captain America. She couldn't be vulnerable around him, not in the state he was in—this wasn't about _her_ after all.

She sat in a chair at the table and rested her face on her arms. The shower turned off but Steve didn't come out. She lost track of time, found herself dozing off, and she wasn't sure how much time had passed, but she knew giving Steve his time alone was the least she could do. When she glanced at the clock, she realized over an hour had passed since Steve's phone call with Bucky—in that time, they'd only spoken a little, cleaned their wounds, and then Steve had disappeared and she'd dozed off.

She wasn't sure what else to do. Still groggy, she pulled out her phone and called Mo. She just needed someone to talk to, she realized. She had no idea where to go from here, what to say—she was alone and she was scared, but Mo would know what to do. Mo always did.

The phone rang a few times before going to the other girl's voicemail. Olivia called again, and this time Mo answered. Her voice was low, raspy, thick with sleep.

"Hello?"

"Hi—hi, Mo."

"D'you know what time it is?"

"Like, three."

"Yeah," Mo whispered. "You okay?" A lump formed in Olivia's throat.

"No," she squeaked. "I—"

She suddenly heard another voice on the line—low, masculine, also sleepy. "Who is it?"

"Olivia," Mo said, and Olivia's mouth dropped open.

"Tell her t' go t'sleep," Bucky mumbled.

"Hush," Mo said affectionately.

"I—_oh my god_," Olivia gasped, her face heating up as the pieces fell into place. "You—did you _sleep_ with him? As in, like, you _slept with him?_"

Mo hesitated. Then: "Yes."

"I'm so sorry," Olivia whispered. "Never mind. Go to sleep."

"No, no," Mo said, "it's okay, you just woke us up."

"_Go to sleep, Olivia,"_ Bucky moaned.

"Shut up," Mo said. "Olivia, is everything okay?"

"Yeah," she said, "I was just lonely—I'm sorry, I'll talk to you in the morning."

Mo hesitated again. Then: "You need to sleep," she began. "So does Steve. Make sure he sleeps. Remember the grounding techniques I taught you? Use them if you need to. All you can do, right now, is listen if he wants to talk. As for _you_—I know it's scary. But he's back, now, and he won't hurt you."

"How do you know?" Olivia whimpered. "How do you know he won't hurt me?"

"I've been where you are," Mo said. "And now I'm in bed with the Winter Soldier. Trust me. I know it's scary, but don't upset him. Just be calm, and just listen to him, and you'll be alright. You're under no obligation to stay there, remember?"

"You're right."

"I know I am. Just stay calm. Get some water—"

"_Go to sleep,"_ Bucky said, and Mo laughed a little.

"And sleep," Mo said. "Remember to breathe. Leave if you feel threatened. Don't worry about hurting his feelings. Take care of yourself. Listen to your gut."

"Thanks, Mo."

"_Goodnight, Olivia,_" Bucky said, and Olivia smiled a little and ended the call. She shook her head—Mo and Bucky. She couldn't say it was a surprise, really, and she was happy for them—

"Still here?" Steve was leaning against the doorframe, wearing a white tanktop and his dress pants again. His hair was messy and fluffy, his skin flushed and fresh. She jerked at the sound of his voice and glared at him. "Shower's yours, then," he said, "if you want it."

"I don't have clothes," she said.

"This is Dr. Banner's room," Steve said, "for whenever he comes this way. I'm sure he wouldn't mind letting you borrow one of the shirts he left behind."

"Yeah," she said slowly. "Sure, I guess."

Steve stole a shirt and she showered quickly and dressed in the shirt. Her knees, thanks to her light skin, were already bruised. Without the makeup on her face, the bruises on her face were visible as well. She wanted, so badly, to care, but she was just so tired. She emerged from the bathroom with damp silver hair, swept to one side, and looked around for Steve.

"In here," he called from the bedroom. She found him sitting on a couch, the bed left available. He nodded at it. "All yours."

Instead, she sat on the arm of the sofa beside him. She felt a little better after the shower.

"How you holding up?" He met her eyes briefly. When he didn't answer, she repeated herself. "_How you holding up, Steve?"_

"I'm not," he said abruptly. "I mean, is that what you want me to say?"

She was tired. She was hurt. And his tone did hurt her feelings, a little. She glared. "Say whatever you want," she snapped back. "I'm sick of your attitude."

She hopped off the edge of the couch angrily.

"Olivia," he said, his tone soft, regretful.

"No," she snapped, rounding on him, brushing her wet hair out of her face. She was shaking again. "You can be such a _dick_ sometimes," she spat, and he looked half-startled, half-amused, which infuriated her. "I didn't sign up for this," she went on. "None of this. I knew you'd be difficult, but _this_—"

"You're right," he said. "You don't have to do this—"

"I've put in too much to quit now," she said stubbornly. "But I swear, Rogers, sometimes I just want to—to—"

He stood, towering over her suddenly, and she had to take a step back to look up at his face.

"To what?" he asked, eyeing her balled fist. "Hit me?"

"Don't tempt me," she said, feeling like a little Chihuahua yapping up at a monstrous great dane, with little thought given to her size. Or his, for that matter.

"I owe you that much," he said. "I've put you through hell." She was still giving him that withering glare. "C'mon," he said, brushing his jaw with his knuckles. "A free shot. Slug me—right in the kisser—"

She snorted. "As if I could reach your face."

"I'll get you a step stool," he said, grinning softly. "Or I'll sit."

"I hate you," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said, sitting back down and giving her that puppy dog look, from beneath his lashes. His eyes were impossibly blue. She felt her heart softening a bit and he nodded at the bed, lowering his gaze, his eyes suddenly emotional. He opened his mouth to say something, but she interrupted him, placing a hand heavily on top of his head and tugging his hair gently—something she'd figured out soothed him. He groaned softly as she stepped closer, stood directly in front of him, and at her touch he seemed to deflate a little.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and she hushed him, combing her fingers through his hair. She felt him relaxing, melting into the touch, and she desperately wished there was someone there to stroke her hair, to soothe her, but she had no one. "Olivia—"

"It's okay," she said, her tone so gentle that it even surprised her. "You don't have to say anything. Okay?" He nodded and swallowed convulsively and she ended up sitting on the arm of the couch again, her knees brushing his shoulder as she played with his hair.

It was a long time before he spoke again, and when he did it was clear that he wasn't feeling any better. "I need to leave," he said, turning to face her. He caught her hands in his, bringing them down between the both of them, meeting her eyes. "I'm no good—"

"Stop that," she said, freeing one of her hands and rubbing his shoulder. "You didn't do anything worse than anyone else here." She knew that it was true. She wasn't stupid. She knew Sam had struggled. Bucky, obviously, and Mo, too, of course. "Everyone loves you, Steve—I've never seen anything like it. It's unconditional."

He looked up at her sharply, desperately. "I don't deserve that."

She tugged at a strand of his hair affectionately. "Good luck convincing them of that."

* * *

Bucky was still beside her when she woke up. It had been a long, long time—years—since she'd woken up like this, after a night like the one she'd just spent with him. After losing her leg, after being scarred so badly, she'd shut herself away from everything intimate… and yet here she was. Neither of them had woken again since Olivia's call, and now she woke facing him, lying on her stomach. It was hot beneath the covers, with him beside her, so they'd been pushed down around her hips. He was on his side, facing her, blankets pushed down, and she studied him for a moment as memories of the night before came rushing back. She felt herself flush a little as she watched his face.

His brows quirked, suddenly, his eyes still closed, and he wrinkled his nose at her. "Quit staring," he said. "It's creepy." He blinked open his eyes and she smiled a guilty smile. She watched him watch her for a moment before he smiled and extended his metal arm toward her, snagging her around the waist and dragging her closer. She moaned and laughed as he kissed her forehead and she curled around him.

There was no awkwardness—it was the most natural thing in the world, and for that she was deeply grateful.

"Mornin', sunshine," she said as he trailed the metal hand over her metal leg; the sound wasn't all that pleasant, but part of her liked it; it was something unique to them, both of them missing parts of themselves, but the missing parts complimenting each other.

"Mornin'," he said. "How d'ya feel?"

She stretched and groaned. "Sore."

He smirked. She rolled her eyes and bit his chest, and he let out a muffled yelp and fought her off. She struggled and laughed, reveling in this feeling, this bliss, and soon she'd wrestled herself on top of him. He allowed her to pin his arms above his head as she straddled his waist.

"Oh no," he drawled, "now what?"

She smirked and leaned down to kiss him, drawing away at the last second, leaving him straining up, just a little, for her lips.

"Oh really?"

"Really," she said softly, her breath on his lips, just out of his reach. She lowered her head and sank her teeth into his neck.

"Ouch!"

"Crybaby," she said, and he laughed, but the laughter died quickly as she kissed his throat. He moaned as she nipped at the skin, and soon his body had gone pliant beneath her. She tangled one hand in his hair, sitting up and drawing him up with her so that she was seated on his lap, chest to chest. He watched her face for a moment as she draped her arms around his shoulders, mussing his hair, leaning in to kiss him gently.

"I could get used to this," he murmured against her mouth a few moments later. She grinned slowly, her hands roaming over his chest, still a little tentative, noting that he didn't flinch the way he used to when she came in contact with the scarred metal shoulder. She lifted her hands to his face, framing his jaw. She looked at him seriously and wrinkled her nose at him, grimacing.

"Yeah, um, about that—I'm just using you for your body—"

He laughed sharply and she was smirking, but ended up shrieking a moment later as he flipped her onto her back, positioning himself on top of her, pinning her arms down with his metal hand.

"Not fair," she grunted, laughing and breathless. He kissed her forehead. Then he kissed her cheek. Then her chin, and the tip of her nose, playfully, rapidly, and before she knew it she was squirming and giggling as he nibbled and kissed all over her face, releasing her hands so that his were free to roam her body. It was so strange, but _so right_—he was affectionate and playful and gentle, and this was the way it should have been between them. He could barely contain himself, it seemed, almost as though he'd been wanting this for a long, long time. She knew she had.

She was nearly breathless with laughter when he finally crushed his mouth to hers, kissing her in a way that was suddenly anything but playful, and her laughter immediately died and turned to a moan. She wrapped her legs around him and tugged him closer as his lips moved to her throat, over her collarbone, to her chest.

Her hands were tangled in his hair when there was a knock at the door. His lips stilled against her skin and he looked at her, and they both waited until the knock sounded again. She opened her mouth, but her words were stopped as he placed a finger to her lips, silencing her, and she found him smirking as he hovered over her and went back to kissing her. There was another knock.

"Mo," Sam called. "Wake up. Big day ahead of us, you know, gotta lotta shit to deal with…"

Bucky's mouth was on hers; she barely heard Sam. He nipped at her jaw.

"Maybe if we're quiet," Bucky murmured, his breath hot on her skin, "he'll go away."

She doubted it. But she wasn't thinking clearly. One hand in Bucky's hair, she drew him back up and he smiled as she kissed him.

Sam knocked again.

"_Mo?"_

Bucky groaned. Sam jiggled the knob. He, of course, had no idea what he was interrupting. How could he?

"Olivia's going to skin me if—"

Bucky heaved a heavy sigh. "We heard you, Wilson, thank you."

"We'll be out in a minute, Sam."

Sam, of course, was so used to the idea of them sharing a room that he thought nothing of it. Mo sighed and kissed Bucky again.

"Fun's up," she said.

"To be continued," he promised, and she flushed a little.

"Where are my—"

"Cute," Bucky said. He'd stood and climbed out of bet to gather his clothes, instead snatching her lacy underwear off the floor. He spun them around one finger before sling-shotting them at her. She snatched them out of the air as he got dressed, and she didn't bother to hide the fact that she was checking him out. She sat where she was, the blankets in her lap, smiling, her eyes on him. He rolled his eyes at her as he tugged on the dress pants from last night, then the button up, leaving it unbuttoned as he groaned and leaned across the bed to kiss her.

"You're so pretty," she mumbled, her voice playful, dreamy.

"Creep," he said, and she drew him back and snagged his lower lip between her teeth playfully before hopping out of bed and walking toward her dresser. She felt his eyes on her and she turned.

"I'm the creep?"

He raised his hands innocently, sitting on the bed now, waiting for her.

"Damn," he said, "am I lucky or what?"

"You are," she said, tugging on a pair of shorts, still topless, shirt in her hand. She walked over to him and caught his chin in her hand and kissed his forehead gently, and his arms went around her waist and they held on to each other for a moment.

Sam pounded on the door again. She sighed and stepped back, tugging on the shirt and her shoes, wishing she had time to shower and imagined inviting Bucky to shower with her. Her face heated a little and she shook the thoughts away. Later, she thought, after this got figured out. She knotted her hair and looked at Bucky.

"Ready?"

He shook his head fretfully, then squared his shoulders, sighed, and nodded. As soon as they stepped out that door, she thought, it was back to reality, and it was clear neither of them was truly ready for that yet. He came up behind her and kissed the top of her head.

"No regrets?" he asked suddenly. Startled, she looked up at him and smiled, shaking her head.

"None. You?"

"I only regret that I didn't do it sooner."

She smiled. "C'mon," she said.

She found Sam sitting against the wall, next to the door. He looked up at them when they emerged and stared at them for only a couple of seconds before he rolled his eyes. Mo blinked.

"Well," he said bitterly, "at least _someone_ had fun last night."

Mo's eyes widened. "What?"

"Please," he said, "I can practically smell it on you." He stood and eyed them. "Classy."

"How did you—"

"It's written all over you," he said, eyeing them. "Did you even shower?"

"Just shut up, Sam," Mo said, and Sam leaned his head back and crowed with laughter, tears in his eyes. She looked up at Bucky who just shrugged. She brushed past Sam. "Are we going, or what? Stop laughing, you idiot."

"Your leg is dented," Sam gasped. She looked down; he was right. The smooth finish was scratched and dented from Bucky's hand. She groaned.

"Hang on," she said, heading back to the room. "Let me change into some pants." It was all in good fun, she knew, and she didn't mind much. Bucky seemed to be handling him well. She hit Sam in the gut as she passed, just as he said:

"Take a shower while you're at it."

**AN: I love, love, love the Mucky in this chapter! Anyways, remember to review! :)**


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: So, finally got around to writing the next chapter for this. 252 reviews… and the 251st marks the VERY FIRST negative/hateful review. It wasn't that bad, to be honest. It took them 6 chapters to decide this story was absolute crap and that they wanted to put a bullet through Olivia's head because she's pathetic.**

**But, hey, 1 out of 252 ain't that bad, right? I think we're doing okay so far. :) And to the rest of you… wow… thank you for sticking with me on this and my other stories! Have a quick fluffy/smutty chapter :) I figure I owe it to you for taking SO LONG to have them finally get together!  
**

Olivia's meeting had gone about as he'd expected: Steve had apologized, she'd announced that she would dial back the parties to ease the stress on him and, to Bucky's surprise, Steve hadn't objected and he'd realized they'd probably discussed this and agreed on the terms beforehand. Tony and Mo's project would be going on as scheduled, and she'd announced that Mo and Tony had an opportunity to visit troops in the Middle East. Mo, who had been sitting beside him, and tensed up a little, but had nodded. Tony had looked nervous as well and the two had shared a look.

Bucky had been okay until it had been revealed that they would be leaving in three days and that Bucky and Steve would be staying behind, although originally Steve had been meant to go with them. Bucky was only a little relieved when it was mentioned that Sam would go, too, in Steve's place. Apparently, Olivia didn't think it wise to send the Super Soldiers, and while he saw her point, it still worried him that Mo would be going into a war zone, whatever the reason.

The party had been a success, however, and no one noticed anything unusual about Steve, which was a break that none of them had been expecting. They'd all been excused; Olivia looked like she hadn't slept all night and Bucky suspected this was why the meeting had been so short and to the point. Steve had lingered to talk with Bucky and Mo went to talk to Tony about fixing her leg before their trip to the Middle East, which had resulted in Tony crowing with laughter, leaving Mo looking annoyed, but she shrugged him off.

Steve had had a stupid grin in his face, though, throughout his conversation with Bucky, like he couldn't really focus on his apology, and Bucky had finally rolled his eyes.

"Wipe that look off your face," Bucky had said dryly, "before I do it for you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Steve had said, wide-eyed, but he looked like he had when they were boys, grinning like an idiot, and Bucky had just sighed but ended up smiling, too, because Steve was his best friend and what else would they do? Steve had ended up clapping him on the shoulder after finally schooling his features into seriousness, looking Bucky in the eye.

"I'm happy for you," he said. "It's about time."

He remembered Tony laughing, stating, _"Saw that coming a mile away_," and Bucky shrugged one shoulder. "Seems everyone's got the same idea." But he smiled.

"You've been smitten with her long enough," Steve said. "It's nice to see you happy, is all. You deserve it."

"Thanks," Bucky had said, and Steve tried to look innocent as Mo approached. But she took one look at them, narrowed her eyes at Steve, and said _"Really?_"

"What?" Steve asked innocently, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and she had just rolled her eyes playfully and announced that she would let them talk, but that she was going to her room.

Bucky had found her a little later in the shower, once it was decided that everyone would take the day off and relax. He'd let her know he was in her room so as not to startle her and she'd invited him in to shower with her, and it had started out innocently enough, with her playfully lathering his hair, but had ended up with them doing everything _but_ showering. Strangely enough, due to the little grips Tony had put on the bottom of her metal foot, she had a better grip on the slippery floor than he did, which she had taken quick advantage of. But when things had gotten heated, and they did quickly, he had nearly slipped (he'd never been with a woman in the shower, before, after all) and she had laughed and laughed; they had only been saved by the strength of his cybernetic arm.

He'd decided, then, that the bed was a safer bet, and they'd ended up there. He'd surrendered and let her take the reins, and she had this way about her that just made him feel adored like he couldn't remember having felt before. He felt safe with her.

She was sitting on his lap, now, and he was sitting up so that they were face to face, his back against the headboard. She was breathing heavily into his mouth, kissing him deeply, rocking her hips back and forth at a torturously slow pace. He knotted his fist in her wet hair and tugged, and she sank her teeth into his lower lip. She was driving him crazy. He released her hair and moved his hands down to grip her hips and started to lift her, to speed up her rhythm, but she quickly caught his hands and pinned them to the wall above his head.

"Slow," she murmured, her breath hot on his ear, lifting herself up, almost entirely away from him. He gasped. She trailed her fingers down his arms before catching his jaw in her hand and angling his head back, kissing his neck, her tongue tracing his skin before she bit him, hard, and dropped herself back onto him, _hard_, grinding her hips against him. He let out a startlingly loud moan and felt her smile wickedly against his throat, knotting her fingers in his hair and kissing him in a way that was surprisingly rough and demanding, the nails on her opposite hand biting into his chest, a move that she had quickly learned made him go weak, and he was like putty in her hands.

"What are you doing to me?" he groaned. She just smiled coyly, alternating between moving slowly and gently and grinding roughly, briefly, her hips roving in circles. If he asked her to go faster, she would only smile and move more slowly, and he realized that she was _teasing_ him.

"You're driving me crazy," he breathed, his eyes half-closed.

"_Good,_" she said huskily.

"I'm going to get you back for this," he promised, and she locked eyes with him, tugged on his hair, and dropped down hard, wrapping her legs around him. He closed his eyes and groaned.

"I'm counting on it," she murmured in his ear, nipping at the soft skin at the edge of his jaw. As she kissed him again, hungry and deep, he knew it was exactly what she wanted. Her tongue was in his mouth and he was overwhelmed by her, the feel of her, her smell, her taste, the way she pulled away, sucking on his lips, leaning her neck back invitingly, and he couldn't take it anymore. He seized her hips and pushed away from the wall, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders with a gasp as he nearly fell on top of her, his forehead pressed against hers, and she shuddered as he pulled away, his mouth roving over her stomach before he dragged his tongue from her chest up her neck, a move that _he_ had learned made her tremble.

She grabbed the back of his head and drew him back up, kissing him in a way that was desperate, all teeth and tongue, like she craved him, like she couldn't get enough of him. He kissed her back with bruising force. This was different, he thought; this wasn't like the previous night, which had been gentle, which had been him finally giving himself to her and surrendering, passionate. No, this was quickly becoming rough and desperate, demanding, messy. He liked the sound she made when he pulled her hair, liked the way she gasped when he finally pushed into her again. He liked the way she had wrapped her legs around him and the way he craved her, closer, wrapping one arm beneath her, pressing his entire body down on hers, burying his face in her neck and inhaling deeply. He loved the way she dug her nails into his shoulders, scraping against the metal one, and he made sure his teeth left marks on her skin.

They were both gasping when they finished, and she smiled widely as he pressed his forehead against hers and rolled to the side, dragging her with him as she laughed.

"Wow," she panted.

"Wow," he agreed.

"I think I need to shower again," she said, and he burst out laughing, curling an arm around her waist and kissing her.

"Maybe not just yet," he said, and she arched an eyebrow and smirked. He felt the muscles in her flesh leg shaking.

"I could definitely get used to this," she said softly, her eyes on his face, pushing one hand through his damp, sweaty hair, her hand coming to rest on his jaw. He kissed her wrist and she closed her eyes.

"I'll be here as long as you want me," he replied, nuzzling her neck.

"That's a dangerous promise to make," she warned, curling one leg over his hip, and he grinned, gripping her and bringing her flush against him. He kissed her neck, working his way down her chest as she stroked his head.

"I don't want you to go," he said suddenly, his lips moving against her skin, curling his legs around hers.

"What?"

"With Tony. I don't want you to go."

"I won't be gone long," she said.

"It's not just that," he sighed, moving back up so that they were face to face. "I'll worry."

"I'll be fine," she promised, kissing him gently. He sighed. "Don't pout." He whined and she laughed, her nose wrinkling in the way that he liked, the way it did when she _really_ laughed, until he was chuckling, too. "I'll be okay, I promise."

"I know, I know," he said, but he was still uneasy.

"Hey," she said, catching his chin and meeting his eyes. "Sam _and_ Tony will be with me, plus the military. Rhodey will be there, too. We're going to be fine."

"I know."

"Then stop _pouting_," she said, pushing his chest a little, and he scowled. She grinned and kissed his lips, but he didn't respond and it took everything he had not to smile. She pecked his lips again, and again when he didn't respond, and then a few more times in rapid succession, even going so far as to flick her tongue over his lips, which nearly crumbled his resolve.

"Kiss me back," she whined playfully, and when he just sighed a playfully pouty sigh, she just shrugged. "Alright, then, I have my ways." He closed his eyes as she kissed him slowly, gently, her tongue tracing over his lower lip. She cupped his jaw and rolled her hips against his and he swallowed a gasp, and when he didn't respond she pushed him onto his back and crawled over him, straddling him and gripping his face.

"What if I kissed you liked they did in the movies?" she teased, trying a different tactic, then dipped her head down and kissed him dramatically, complete with hair tossing and little moans, and it was sloppy and silly with too much tongue and he couldn't take it anymore; he burst out laughing a loud, ridiculous laugh, pushing her away and rolling over, still laughing.

"What movies are you watching?" he gasped, wiping his eyes.

"What? You didn't like it? It's because you didn't participate. C'mere," she said, resting on her side, facing him. She reached out dramatically and gripped his jaw again and gazed into his eyes, her eyebrows drawn, lips parted, a mask of overly-done passion. Then she drew him in and kissed him hard, in the same way she had before, but with added slurping sounds and more moans.

But then he grabbed her face, hard, and pushed her onto her back, hovering over her, and caught her up in a slow, deep, passionate kiss, and this time her moan was real, lost against his mouth as he rolled his hips against hers. She nearly whimpered as he drew away with a smirk, but she followed him up, kissing him again before he could draw a full breath.

"Kiss me harder," she said huskily, pulling his hair, and there was a fire in her eyes and he obliged. She had wrapped herself around him again, as close as she could get, and he found himself thanking god for the quick recovery that came with being a Super Soldier.

* * *

They hadn't left her room all day. They had showered together, again, and she'd barely made it to the bed, she was so sore. But it was a good sore, a tired sore. They hadn't bothered with clothes and, spent, they'd both collapsed on the bed, tugging up the sheets. Her back was to his chest and they were both quiet, but she was grinning as she nuzzled into his arm, his metal hand playing idly with her hair. He moaned, a tired, fitful sound, and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her closer until they were curled up together.

She knew him so well, by now, after everything they had been through together. She knew he was tense, stressed at the thought of her going into the Middle East. She could feel it in his body, in the way that he breathed; he was distracted, he wasn't completely at ease. She rolled over with a little sigh so that she was facing him, slipping her leg between his, kissing his chest gently and tucking her head beneath his chin.

"What's up?"

"Hmm?"

She stroked her fingers along the length of his body. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothin'."

"I'll be fine, you know," she murmured, drawing her head back to find that he was watching her. "It's just a little promotional type-thing."

"I know," he said. "But you'd be worried if it was me."

"Yeah," she said, nodding.

"It'll be okay," he said, and she could practically smell the anxiety on him. She dragged her thumb over his lower lip and kissed him gently for a few moments, his fingers skirting over her hips. She pulled away but stayed close. "You can always call me. You're still my priority; you always have been."

"I know, sweet'eart, I know."

"I want you to be okay, is all."

"I'll be fine. It's only for a few days." But he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. He had that look in his eyes, the one he got when he was going somewhere dark in his mind, and she stroked the wrinkle between his brows with her thumb, getting his attention. "Relax."

"Kiss me?"

So she did. She kissed him softly and he sighed, a soft groan the moment her lips touched his, his lips parting just a little. He took the lead, but it was slow, achingly gentle, different from their other kisses. His mouth lingered; the kiss was deep and longing, open, and it tugged at her heartstrings in the oddest way. He was looking for reassurance and she gave it to him as best she could. They kissed for a long time, in silence, hands and mouths soft and sweet, and she wouldn't have ever stopped, she thought; she could do this for hours, and she wouldn't get tired of it.

She wasn't sure how long it was before he sighed and pulled away slowly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She snuggled into him, her head on his shoulder as his grip on her tightened, and she was worried; she knew he would be in for a restless sleep, and restless it was. She woke, at one point, to the sound of him murmuring in Russian. She didn't understand his words, but she didn't need to to know that he was upset, scared, and she woke him and he startled, jerking before his eyes settled on her.

"Sorry," he mumbled, blinking, and she stroked his chest and lulled him back to sleep. He would be okay, she told herself. There was still time. She would only be gone a few days. There was no reason to be worried.

**AN: I hope you guys enjoyed! Sorry for the wait, but hopefully this makes up for it? **


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